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THE BLIND GODDESS, 



A DEAMA 



BY FRANK N. WILCOX. 



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COPYRIGHT 1885, 
BY FEA^K ^\ WILCOX. 

AJ>L RlttHTS KESERVED. 






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THE BLIND GODDESS. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — Sitting room of Mrs. Hunt's home. — Door and 
window in the rear; both open, disclosing garden and 
shrubbery. — Rag cai^pet on the floor. — Old fashioned gilt 

framed looking glass., calcJiall., comb case, etc.. on the walls. 
— Old fashioned fijr place. — Majitel shelf zvith shells, speci- 
mens of ore, &c. — Calico lambrequins and muslin curtains 
atwindotvs, tied back with red ribbons. — Old wooden rocker 
and loimge with calico cover. — China closet and high wooden 
clock in corner. — Hangijig baskei with trailing vines outside 
tuindow. — Bii'd cage in window. — Mrs. Himt asleep by 
sewing machine ifi front of open window. ^ Apron partially 
made, lying on machine. 

Mrs. Hunt. [Stieezes violently aitd awakes .) Well, now, 
if I haven't been and gone to sleep righi (jjteezes) in that 
draft, when I might have known I'd take my death-- 
sneezes) a cold. {Puts apron under machine with great show 
of energy.) The way I'm going on [ shall never get these 
aprons finished. Never, never, never. {Sews violently 
and needle breaks.) There it goes again. I can't get the 
hang of these machines noway. {^Sneezes. ) There ,now ! 

\Enter Evans. ^ 

Evans. Pardon the intrusion, Mrs. Hunt. Did vou 
say come in? 

Mrs. Hunt. Did I say come in? No, I didn't. I 
sneezed ; but you can come in if you want to. 

Evans. {Mrs. H. sneezes^ What's the matter, Mrs. 
Hunt? Been taking cold? 

Hrs. Hunt. Yes, I have. ] was fool enough to fall 
asleep in the draft. 

Evans. That's unfortunate. One should always 
avoid a draft. 

Mks. H. Well, I do mostly ; but I ain't as keerful as 



some folks. I never went to Canada to avoid one, as 
some folks did. 

Evans. Ha-ha-ha. Those were days that tried 
men's soles, Mrs. Hunt. 

Mrs. Hunt. I must do something for this cold I've 
got some pennyrile somewhere. I guess it's in the front 
room. [Exit, talking- outside .) Scat, you nasty thing. 
{Enter, canjing band-box in one hand and big Maltese cat in 
other. ) Look at this cat. Every time he gets a chance, 
he just skulks in and stretches out on my pillow shams 
for a nap, {Pnts cat out of door. Looks at clock ^ Why, 
I declare if 'taint most four o'clock. Nellie will be home 
pretty soon and she'll be tired enough, poor thing, try- 
in' to keep them Wilkins young 'uns in order I'd like 
to teach them a spell. Mebby they wouldn't be any 
handsomer when they graduated, but they wouldn't be 
more'n half as sassy. 

Evans, The life of a country schoolmistress isn't an 
enviable one after all, is it, Mrs. Hunt? {Looks at zvatch.') 
By the way, that clock must be a trifle slow. Its half- 
past four by the right time. 

Mrs, H. 'Tis? Well, then, that clock must a run 
down. I declare if 'taint — an' its stopped dead still. 
What time did you say 'tis? 

Evans. {Looks at watch.) Its exactly 31 minutes past 
four. 

Mrs. H. Sure you're right, be you? 

l^]vANS. I think I am exactly right. 

Mrs. H. Then Nellie ought to be here now. {Winds 
clock.) 

Evans, 1 was about to inquire for her. Do you 
think she'll come soon? 

Mrs. H. Do you want +0 see her? 

Evans. Certainly. 

Mrs. H. Well, Evans, just take a friend's advice 
and go home. 

Evans. Why should I do this? 

Mrs. H. You want to know why, do you? 

Evans. Yes. 

Mrs. H. Well, then, I'll tell you. She don't want 
to see you. 

Evans. May I ask why? 



Mrs. H. I suppose you may. She don't pine for 
your society. 

Evans. She has never said so to me. 

Mrs. H. Well, you ask her and she will. She's too 
much of a lady to tell you so, when she ain't asked, and 
too much of a christian to lie about it, when she is. 

Evans. I see no reason why she should dislike me 
so intensely, Mrs. Hunt. 

Mrs. H. You don't, eh? Well, Nellie don't like 
you and she does like young Ralph, and if you've got 
half the sense that you have sugar in your talk you'll 
let her alone. 

Evans. She doesn't appreciate me and she does 
admire Ralph? Ha! ha! ha! Well, now, I don't know 
about that. I'm sure it she likes Ralph, I can't blame 
her ; but the Major will have a word or two to say about 
Ralph's matrimonial ventures, I take it. By the way, 
what do you think of the Major? 

Mrs. H. I think he is a kind hearted, well meaning 
old bear. That's what I think of him. He'll growl 
and show his teeth, but Ralph'll do as he's a mind to. 
Ralph's got a willof his own and he came honestly by 
it. Old Gurley need'nt feel so proud. There ain't a 
man livin' good enough for Nellie — not even young 
Ralph — though he's about the likliest one I know of. 
Nellie is just as proud as he is, and if she heard Old 
Gurley do any growlin' about her, she'd give young 
Ralph the cold shoulder. That's what she'd do. 

Evans. Ha ! ha ! ha ! In which case there would be 
hope for me. Mrs. Hunt, don't you think Nellie ought 
to be informed of the state of Major Gurley's leelings? 
Just as a matter of justice to her, you know ! 

Mrs. H. Now see here, Evans. {Sneezes.) You're a 
fine christian to come here and play Judas Iscariot to 
your cousin — pietendin' to be his friend while your 
betrayin' him. If you do — {Sneezes.) 

Evans. Ha! ha! ha! Good bye, Mrs. Hunt. Take 
care of that cold. Pennyroyal tea is an unfailing specfic 
for coughs, colds and consumption. Au revoir, Mrs. 
'Hunt, till we meet again. \^Exit Evans. 1 

Mrs. Hunt. Oh, revore till we meet again, eh? 
Well, now. 1 just wish I had it in my power to regulate 
the weather, Evans, an' if I had you'd never see me again 



nor any one else to speak to 'em after the next thunder 
storm. If you didn't get hit by the first flash of light- 
ning, it'd be just because I couldn't aim straight. 

Enter Capitola. 

Cap. Oh, mother! I've had such a narrow escape. 
Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Mother, if you love me clasp 
me in your arms. In one short moment more I should 
have been devoured — gobbled, eaten, and- you, mother, 
would have been an orphan — alone, lone orphan. 

Mr=. H. What do you mean, child? 

Cap. I mt-an —Mother, do I look pale? 

Mrs. H No. 

Cap. Well, I feel pale. 

Mrs. H. What are you talking about? 

Cap. Every time I go by Deacon Brown's, that great 
big ugly watch dog of his shows his teeth and growls 
at me. I never did like him, and when he growled at 
me to-night, I poked him through the fence with a pole. 
He just openetl his mouth, broke his chain and started 
for me. If it hadn'tbeen forthat young fellow andthat 
gnn — Mother, are you sure I don't look pale? 

Mrs. H. Child! . 

Cap. His hair was so red and curly. 

Mrs. H. a dog with red hair? 

Cap. No. A young fellow with red hair and a gun. 
Tlie young fellow who shot the dog. 

Mrs. H. Now, see here, Capitola, I shan't put up 
with this much longer. What do you mean ? 

Cap. I mean that he shot the dog and saved my 
life ; that he's a lawyer and I've asked him to come 
here and get supper. 

Mrs. H. You have asked a youn:»- man to come 
here to supper that you never saw before? 

Cap. He ain't a man. He's a lawyer. 

Mrs. H. Well, he'd better not come here. Where 
is he now? 

Cap. When I left him he was settling with the 
deacon for the dog. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Oh, the deacon is 
awful mad, awful. 

Mrs. H. Oh, Capitola, won't you ever tr}^ and 
be like other girls? Come here and let me see about 
those aprons. \_Measures length of aprons\. If you'd onl}-- 



try and be like Nellie now — [Puts pin in apron to show 
where to take it in]. But where is Nellie? 

Cap. Oh, she's coming, somewhere, I guess. Say- 
mother, what ails Nellie? She acts as if she hadn't a 
friend on earth, ever since Ralph Gurley wan here yes- 
terday. I wonder if they had a row? If Ralph don't 
fall in love with Nellie and marry her I think he's a 
mean, spiteful, good-for-nothing thing. [Enter Nellie.] 
He needn't feel too proud to marry Nellie. [Mrs. Hunt 
signs her to stop but she pays no attention.] She's just as 
good as he is, and as for Old Gurley — 

Mrs. H. Capitola ! [Cap. sees Nellie and runs off.] 
Well, Nellie, you've come at last. You look clean tired 
out. Sit right down in the rocking-chair. You look 
e'enamost worried to death. You ain't feeling well, be 
you, Nellie? 

NELI.IE. Only a little tired. That's all, thank you. 
It's been so oppressively warm to- day, but how much 
cooler it is growing. 

Mrs. H. [Sneezes.] Yes ; its enough sight cooler. 
Been raining somewhere sure. I thought 1 heard thunder 
just afore I went to sleep in the draft and caught cold. 
I must go and make some pennyrile tea. [Looksinbox.] 
Nothing like it to break up a cold ; nothing like it in 
the world. Did you meet Evans, Nellie? 
Nellie. [ Wearily.] No, 

Mrs. H. He was here and I reckoned he was goin' 
to meet you. 

Nellie. I went into the Glen to gather these flowers 
and he undoubtedly passed me. Aren't they pretty? 

Mrs. H. Pretty as pretty can be. [Sneezes.] I must 
<j-o and make my pennyrile tea. [Enter Evans. Mi's. 
H. going at Wing.] I told Evans you didn't want to 
see him, and I don't believe you do ; say do you? 
Nellie. No ; not to-day. 

Exit Mrs. Hunt. 

Evans. Pardon me. Miss Irvine. I unintentionally 
overheard your last remark. Had I known your wishes 
I should have respected them. As it is, I think you will 
tolerate my presence ionfr enough, at least, to permit 
me to apologize for this intrusion. 



Nellie. You have nothing to apologize for, Mr. 
Evans. I should have spoken as I did of any visitor 
to-day. 

Evans. Even of Ralph Gurley? 

JSellie. Sir! 

Evans I beg your pardon ; but my question was 
prompted by a feeling of regret that one, who is so near 
of kin to me, should be the cause of your studiously 
avoiding? me as you do. 

Nellie. I have never avoided you, Mr. Evans. 

Evans. Did you not do so to-day? 

Nellie. You forget yourself. I have told you that 
I have not sought to avoid you. You have no right to 
speak to me like this. 

Evans. I recognize the truth of what you say ; but 
the Damascus blade cuts as keenly as a duller weapon. 
I have no right to speak to you at all if you so will it. 

Nellie. I do not will it so. 

Evans You do not? 

Nellie. No; I would not silence the voice of 
friendship, Mr. Evans. 

Evans. Then I may claim that honor? 

Nellie. If you esteem it such, yes ; when you 
remember what is due to friendship. 

Evans. Will you give me your hand in token of that 
pledge? 

Nellie. Yes. 

Evans \Taking her hand. ^ It's an ungrateful beggar, 
who, being made rich beyond his fondest hope, still asks 
his benefactor for more alms ; but I am such a beggar. 

Nellie. I do not understand. 

Evans. You have given me your hand in pledge of 
friendship, but I am not content. I love you. Let me 
keep your hand in pledge of that. 

Nellie. No. \Trying to withdraw her hand^ Do 
not speak of this. 

Evans. Listen to me Nellie. 

Nellie. No. No. Let me go. 

Evans. Nellie, I love you as man alone can love, 
where loss of love means also loss of hope. You must 
listen to me. 1 have been a wanderer and an idler in 
the world — a drone that the working bees stung from 
the hive. My uncle and my cousin know little of my 



past, save that my parents died, when I was scarce a 
man grown up, and left a fortune, which I squandered in 
youthful dissipation. They note the change in me, and 
think it rises from the judgment of maturer years. 
They do not know the truth. It was the thought of you 
that made me turn my back upon the past and grapple 
with the future like a man. Nellie, be my wife and I'll 
redeem this past of mine. And if a husband's love add 
to a wife's happiness, I'll make your lite a dream of 
paradise. And, if devotion win requited love, the bonds 
of marriage will not turn to chains to hold you an un- 
willing captive. {^She turns away.^ You are silent? 

Nellie. No. But I regret for your sake and for 
mine, that you have spoken, Mr. Evans. 

Evans. My words have caused you pain. 

Nellie. Yes ; because the answer I must give may 
cause yon pain, which I would spare. I can never be 
your wife. 

Evans. May I ask you this : Is there a barrier 
between us two that closes every hope to me of future 
change in your reply? 

Nellie. There is. Let's speak of this no further, 

Evans. One question more. What is that barrier? 

Nellie. I do not love you. 

Evans. You strive to deceive yourself and me. 
You do not succeed well in either case. I know the 
truth. You love my cousin Ralph. 

Nellie. Don't speak of him to me. 

Evans. He loves you in return somewhat weightily, 
I have no doubt. But in the other scale is heaped his 
lather's gold. You are playing a game against the 
power of money, and you'll lose. 

Nellie. I will not hear you. You are insolent. 

Evans. I see, I strike a mangled nerve. Forgive 
the thrust. You love Ralph Gurley, and because you 
do, I hate Ralph Gurley. The bitter goes with the 
sweet. If he do not cast you by and trample on you 
as the pretty plaything of an idle summer, marry him. 

Nellie. Stop, sir! Your words are infamous. 
You forget yourself when 3^ou heap insults on a woman. 
If you do not, you are a coward. Leave me instantly. 
Enter Peters, 

Evans. A thousand pardons for cutting to the 



8 

quick through your affections, but I have no cause to 
love Ralph Gurley. He has come between you and a 
man who loves you as no woman was ever loved before. 
He has come between me and the only noble impulse, 
the only honorable ambition that I have ever felt, for all 
of which, I owe him a heavy debt, that I shall some- 
time pay . [Exit Nellie. ] 

Peters stands by door in military attitude — As Eva7is turns to 
go he nins against him — Peters steps back and cocks gun. 

Peters. Its all right. I'm a witness to the con- 
tract. It's legal and bindmg just as it is. You needn't 
htop to put it in writing. (^Motions with the gun for Evans 
to go. ) 

Evans What do you mean, fellow? 

Peters. Excuse me, sir, but before replying to your 
very courteous inquir3^ allow me to correct a fallacious 
impression under which you labor. I am not a fellow, 
I am, sir, a rudimentary limb, an unfledged eaglet of 
the law . I mean, sir, in reply to your interrogatory, I 
mean, of course, to accept your apology for this clear 
and undeniable assault and battery upon my person . 

KvANs. Stand aside . 

Peters. Don't mention it. Your apology is ample 
and it is received in the same friendly and amicable 
spirit in which it is extended. {Exit Evans.') Ta ! ta ! 
'"Fare thee well, and, if forever, still forever fare thee 
well." {Looks around ihe room.) Well, now, this is the home 
of that beautiful creature who is: {Sings.) "Only a 
pansy blossom." {Speaks.) This is the domicile of her 
whom I rescued from peril. I know it. I feel it. I 
have evidence of it. Here is a garment which is hers. 
Hers without reversion or remainder ; hers in fee 
simple. These strings have encircled her dainty waist. 

Strange thoughts and longings to my soul it brings. 
This little apron with its apron strings. 

Ties it on.) 

Here is her bonnet. {Sings .) 

Only a little bonnet, 
Not a feather on it; 
Yet to thee a sonnet, 

I'd indite. 
Thou a head doth cover. 



Fair as May-day clover; 
Fairly bubbling over 
With delight. 

{Puts it on. ) 

That I, Rufus Choate Peters, should be the hero of a 
romance . I, a student, with brow grown pallid with 
perpetual thought ; she, a fair flower of the verdant 
country . I am in search of game. We meet. She is 
flying from a great peril. The peril is in hot pursuit . 
I rush to the rescue like an avenging god. I raise my 
weapon and destroy the peril. She is grateful. She 
thanks me. She invites me to her humble abode. I 
accept the invitation. I call again and again. Every- 
time I am in hard luck and unable to liquidate my board 
bill, I call again. Her gratitude becomes affection. 
Her affection ripens into true and confiding love. The 
time arrives when I can no longer keep silent. I say 
to her: "When I first beheld you, you were flying from 
a great danger, I shot dowi' the infuriated beast that 
sought to fasten its white fangs in the fluttering folds 
of your polonaise. Be mine and I will protect and 
watch over you. • You shall bask forever in the glori- 
ous sunshine of my smile. For thus, thus, thus, will 
I guard you always." {Strikes attitude — Gun pointed at 
door — Enter Mi's. Hunt — Drops her tea. ) 

Mrs. H. Put down that gun. Put down that gun, 
sir. 

Peters. Certainly. Certainly. Excuse me, my 
dear madame ; but, growing weary of the profound 
quiet of your delightful home, I was indulging in a silent 
reverie. 

Mrs. A. Is that gun loaded? 

Peters. Loaded to the '-'gunnels," madame, 

Mrs. H. Well, take it right out of this house. 

Peters. Certainly. Certainly. With your per- 
mission we will mass the artillery in the woodshed ; 
but before I go, permit me to announce to you my name, 
avocation, and the circumstances which led me to honor 
you with my presence. My name is Rufus Choate 
Peters, I am engaged in investigating with a powerful 
intellect the vast and complicated machinery of juris- 
prudence. I hope to — 

Mrs. H. Oh, never mind that. I know all about 



10 

you. But, say, young man, is that the latest style 
where you came from? 

Peters. I fail to catch the import of your interro- 
gatory, madame. Will you have the kindness to make 
your inquiry more specific, definite and certain? 

Mrs. H. I want to know if the lawyers all wear 
calico bibs where you come from? 

Peters. Oh, ah, yes, yes; I see; yes, madam, 
they all wear 'em, when they're young 

Mrs. H. You intended to. steal it, did you? 

Peters. My action in taking the article is entirely 
free from one essential ingredient to the establishment 
of larceny, my dear madam. You will see by reference 
to Blackstone, vol, i. page 496 — By the way, does your 
library afford a copy of that great author? {^Mrs. Hunt 
stares?) Oh, yes ; I perceive by your glance that it does 
not. You should secure the work at once. It would 
afford you recreation and amusement. Billy is a very 
good author. 

Mrs. H. Who? 

Peters. Billy — Billy Blackstone, you know — 
quite a man in his time — quite so — something of a law- 
yer, too — a little out of date now, but quite racy and 
readable. By reference to his work, volume and page 
aforesaid, you will observe that an essential ingredient 
of every crime is criminal intent. To illustrate — 
should I shoot you — {Points gun at her.) 

Mrs. H. Put it down. 

Peters. I was simply illustrating, you know. As I 
was about to say, should L shoot you by way of illustra- 
tion. — {Points gun again.) 

Mrs. H. But I don't want to be illustrated. 

Peters. My dear madam, I must object to these 
interruptions of my argument. As I was about to say 
— {Points gun at her.) 

Mrs. H. {Seising broom.) Put down that gun and get 
out of here. 

Enter Capitola. 

Capitola, Here, here, Mr. Peters put down that 
gun ; mother won't hurt you. 

Peters. Ah, Miss Hunt, I greet you, I greet you 
most cordially. I see that the red rose of health has 
replaced the lily of fear upon your velvet cheek. Miss 



11 

Hunt, are you stirred with any feeling of gratitude 
toward me for past favors ? 

Cap. Am I? Well, I should think so. I am stirred 
with a perfect fever and ague of gratitude. 

Peters., I knew it. I felt it. Certainly y©u are. 

That being so, would you do me a favor? 

Cap, Certainly. 

Peters. Then, please, have the kindness to intro- 
duce me to your mother. I have not, as yet, made her 
acquaintance. 

Cap. Mother, this is Mr. Peters, who shot the dog. 

Peters. Madam, I am most happy to make your 
acquaintance. 

Mrs. H. Go away, young man. 

Peters. She does not seem impressed with me. 

Cap. Mother ! 

Peters. Speak to her kindly. Mrs. Hunt, I salute 
you. 

Mrs. H. I don't suppose you are the worst man in 
the world, Mr. Peters, but I must confess your goings 
on put me out. 

Peters. You failed to grasp my motives and pur- 
poses, Mrs. Hunt. 

Mrs. H. Well, I wouldn't be surprised if I did, 
and if you'll just bury that gun and make yourself com- 
fortable, Capitola will visit with you while I g6t some 
supper, though goodness knows, you won't get much 
to eat. 

Peters. Thank you. Thank you very kindly, 
Mrs. Hunt. When you know me, you will learn to 
honor and respect me, Mrs. Hunt. On the word of a 
lawyer, in embryo, you will. 

Exit Mrs. Hunt. 

Peters. {Continues.) Capitola, excuse the familiarity, 
Capitola, but the old lady begins to appreciate me. I 
knew she would. The ladies always do. 

Cap. Aren't you awfully conceited, Rufus? Excuse 
the familiarity, Rufus. {Takes down bird cage.) 

Peters. The sweet dew of kindness should alone 
distil upon such ruby lips as yours. The wormwood 
of sarcasm should find no expression there. Egotism 
has no lodgement in my clear and discerning intellect. 



12 

Cap. Say, Rufus, do you know what I honestly 
think of you? 

Peteks. I do not, bat I can guess with some accur- 
acy. You think I am a man who should be amired for 
my classical beauty, my profound learning, «ny chival- 
rous nature, my — 

Cap. Red hair? No, I don't. I think you are soft. 

Peters. Of course you do. They all do. Soft in 
speech, soft in manners, soft in — 

Cap. In the cupola. 

Peters. In the what? 

Cap. In the g^arret. 

Peters. Capitola, I entreat you, don't. If you love 
me, do not use such expressions in my presence. 

Cap. When did I say I loved you? 

Peters. You never did, Capitola. 

Cap. No, you never gave me a chance. Say, 
Rufus, were you ever in love? 

Peters. I have been, Capitola. 

Cap. How do you like it? How does it feel to be 
in love? 

Petirs. The sensation is novel. 

Cap. {Sits beside him.) Did you ever put your arm 
around her? 

Peters. N-n-no. 

Cap. Say, is your girl pretty? 

Peters. Capitola, she is as beautiful as a dream, 
and wiser than a sage. 

Cap. Oh! She's a regular angel, ain't she? Can 
she sing and play the harp? 

Peters. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Capitola, she is no woman ! 
She is the Goddess, Justice, and I am a humble wor- 
shiper at her shrine. She never sings, but you do, do 
you not sing? 

Cap. Can you sing? 

Peters. Can I sing? Can that little captive make 
its gilded prison melodious with the sweetness of its 
song? If so, then I can sing. 

Cap. Sing me something then. 

Peters. What shall I sing? 

Cap. About something sweet, of course. 

Peters. I'll sing about the sweetest thing on earth. 
I'll sing of you. (Sings.) 



13 

VIOLEr EAEE. 

A violet rare, with a meek, modest air. 

Is this maid of the fair country hills, 
Whose sweet, happy voice makes the song birds rejoice, 

And rivals the musical rills. 

CHORUS. 

Oh! Thou fair country maid, oh, be not afraid ; 

I'll steal not thy blushes from thee. 
But, if not amiss, then give me a kiss, 

As a souvenir, maiden, from thee. 

Peters. How's that, Capitola? 

Cap. Some iolks might not like it, but I do. 

Petees. Then give me a souvenir. 

Cap. No, I won't. Say, what did you get into 
trouble with my mother for? 

Peters. We were discussing the necessary ele- 
ments of crime, and I was only attempting- to illustrate 
my position. In so doing, pointed my gun at her 
in this manner. \_Points gtin at Cap.^ 

Cap. Well, I see the point ; you can point it the 
other way. 

Peters . There is no danger ; none whatever. 
How can a gun go off before it's cocked? 

Cap. I don't know. 

Peters. ( Takes off his hat, puts it on the muzzle-) Well, 
If you desire to inform your mind, I wiil convince you 
that a gun cannot go off at half cock, and that both 
you and your mother have been needlessly alarmed. 
If you will give me your undivided attention, 1 will ex- 
plain the complicated mechanism of this implement of 
deadly character called a gun. The charge, so called, 
is placed in this tube or barrel — 

Cap. Yes, I see. Hum ; yes. 

Peters. And is fired by pressing the trigger. If 
the trigger is pressed when the hammers are not raised 
there is no result ; but if pressed when the hammers 
are elevated tlms, {Cocks both barrels.) an explosion is 
the consequence. The hammers not being elevated, 
neither yourself nor mother were in any danger. 

Cap. Oh, yes ; I see . This is the trigger. When 
the hammers are up, there is no danger, when you 
press on this— {Pulls trigger and gun goes off ; Capitola 
shrieks. Business?) 

Peters, l^ay on, McDuff! 

Cap. Oh ! oh ! oh ! {Pretends to faint.) 



14 

Peters. {Catching^ her.) Oh. Capitola ! Thou violet 
of the verdant meadows ! Thou lily of the valley. 
Do not pine and die. [Kisses her. Enter Mrs. Hunt and 
Nellie ) 

Mrs. H. Oh, you monster! You have killed my 
child. 

Peters. I have not, madam. 

Mrs. H. You have. 

Peters . [Dramatically.') "I loved Ophelia. " 

Cap . I feel better now. 

Peters. Do you hear that? She feels better now . 

Mrs.H. What is the matter, Capitola? What do 
mean by such conduct? 

Peters. It was a premature discharge, madam. 
Entirely accidental, I assure you. She didn't mean to 
do it. 

Mrs. a. Keep still, sir. 

Peters. Excuse me, madam. [Bozvs and pulls sun 
bonnet over his eyes. ) 

Mrs. H. Capitola, what did you do? 

Cap. I — I — I — I pulled the trigger. 

Mrs. H. What? 

Cap. I just reached out and pulled the trigger like 
that. [Shoots off the other barrel.) 

Tableau. End scene /. 

Scene II. 

Flat. Down front, street or wood. 

Major. Who is this girl anyway, Ralph? What do 
know about her? 

Ralph. I know that she is an orphan, who is fight- 
ing alone, with a brave heart, against poverty. That her 
only inheritance from parents once wealth}^, but who 
died in poverty, is the face of an angel, an educated 
mind, a sunny disposition, and a heart as pure and spot- 
less as the snow of the Arctics, father. 

Major. Valuable weapons. She'd be better off if 
she had an ugly face, a vinegary disposition and the 
strength of a dray horse. What can such a woman do 
anyway? 

Ralph. You ask what she can do? It is time for 
the world to ask that question of womankind left 
friendless as she is. We load her with the chains of 



custom and prejudice, lest she engage in work that 
we affirm is in violation of all her natural instincts. 
We claim the right to fix her destiny ; to mark the work 
that she may do ; to say what is her proper sphere in 
life, when no one but herself and the Omnipotent can 
know her capabilities ; and then we ask what she can 
do. With insincerity and mock delicacy we shut the 
doors of thousands of honorable employments against 
her. We pay her half the wages paid to men for work 
much better done in the few avenues left open to her. 
We rob her of the fruits of honest toil. We starve her 
body and we dwarf her brain, and when, in desperation 
and despair, she takes the wages paid to sin, we brand 
her with the cruel brand of shame, and greet her brazen 
betrayer without question. What can Nellie Irvine do, 
father? She can lead a pare and blameless life, and 
will live one without my care, but she shall be my wife, 
if I can win her. 

Major, I have no doubt but you can win her. 
There isn't the least doubt of it ; but I can't, and won't, 
consent to your marriage with a girl as poor as a 
church mouse. 

Kalph. You began life a poor man. Is it a crime 
to be poor? 

Major. No ; but it is a misfortune. I've tried it 
and I know. Money is the key that unlocks more 
door?!, and touches more human hearts, than any other 
thing a man can have. 

Ralph. If the possession of money blinds our eyes 
to a just appreciation of purity and nobility of character, 
if it strangles the tenderest and strongest promptings 
of the heart, then I say throw it away, every dollar of 
it, where no one can find it to be cursed by its pos- 
session. 

Major. You talk very fluently, but without sense. 
You have been robbed of that by the sentimental lingo 
of a doll-faced pauper. 

Ralph, Stop, sir ! I appreciate the respect due to 
my father, but there is a limit even to filial duty. 

Major. What's this? Do you mean to threaten 
me? Perhaps you hold a mortgage on my tongue! I 
tried to be charitable and respect your feelings, when 
I called her a pauper. I tell you now, I believe she's a 
smooth tongu^d adventuress. 



16 

Ralph. Who seeks your money ! I wouldn't have 
her contaminate her hands with your money. Keep it 
to' buy respect. It will afford a splendid funeral, and a 
costly coffin will make its occupant looked up to. You 
are no longer my master under the law, and the world 
is as wide as it was when you were of age. 1 cannot 
quarrel with you nor resent your insults, but I can 
avoid them. {Staris to go.) 

Major. What do you propose to do anyway? 
Ralph. ( Turning. ) I propose to make the woman I 
love my wife, if I can overcome her scruples to a mar- 
riage against your wishes. You can shut your doors 
against her, and I shall never cross your threshold 
again. (Exit.} 

Major. Come back, you infernal idiot. Come 
back, I say. Damn it, the boy's head is completely 
turned. I'll show him that he can't budge me an inch, 
Bu the's got the Gurley blood — got the Gurley blood. 
She's got scruples, has she? I don't believe it, but per- 
haps she has, though. I'll see, to-night, and if I can't 
make her refuse him, why let him marry her and 
starve it out. He shan't marry her, by the eternal. 
I won't have my plans thwarted by a boy's toolish 
fancy, damn me if I will. 

Scene III. — Mrs. Hunt's cottage. — Capitola and 

Nellie discovered. — Cajntola crying. 

Nellie. Never mind, dear, you mustn't be angry 
with your mother. It was enough to make her 
• excited. 

Cap. But he wasn't to blame. I did it myself. 
Didn't mother look wild, though? And didn't he 
jump, when I shot off the last barrel? Ha! ha! ha! 
Oh, dear! After what he did to drive him away like 
a tramp . I think it was too bad anyway. 

Nellie. Oh, well, he deserved it. He was very 
rude and ill-mannered, and beside, he was an entire 
stranger. You were very indiscreet to invite him 
here at all. 

Cap. But I did invite him. He ain't to blame, 
and I wouldn't send even a dog away with nothing 
but a red bandana handkerchief tied on his head. 

Nellie. Ha! ha! ha! That was a little cruel 



17 

to say the least; but he'll survive all his trouble, 
Capitola. His loss will make him quite a hero in 
his own estimation. 

Cap. Well, he is a hero anyway. Only think 
how he tried to argue with mother. Oh, my ! Wasn't 
she mad though? Nobody but a hero could have 
talked with her. Ha! ha! ha! 

Nellie, Don't speak like that of your mother. 
Come now, run away and help her, that's a dear. 
(Kisses her.) Never mind the lawyer, Capitola. 
I'll vouch for his entertaining himself. 

Cap. Well, I think he's nice anyhow, and so 
would you, if it wasn't for Ralph Gurley. Yes, 
you would. (Exit). 

Nellie. Ralph Gurley. Ralph Grurley. (Paces 
floor and then sits at table, face ?'esting on hands.) 

Enter Ralph. 

Ralph. Nellie? 

Nellie. Oh, Ralph! 

Ralph. I have come for your answer, Nellie. 

Nel. Your father? 

Ralph. He is inexorable. 

Nel. Then, not now ; not now, Ralph. 

Ralph. Why not now. 

Nel. I cannot bear to speak the words that 
will drive you from me, but — but — Ralph, I cannot 
be your wife. 

Ralph. You do not love me then. (Nellie 
weeps.) You do not love me, Nellie, as I thought. 

Nel. Then no man was ever loved. Ralph, I 
cannot consent to be your wife, when, by so doing, 
I shall rob you of wealth and station and drag you 
down to a life of poverty and toil. Yon would 
forget to love me, if I did, 

Ralph. I would forget to love you, Nellie? 
You doubt me, then, and for that reason you refuse 
me. 

Nel. No! no! I do not doubt you, but you would, 
sometime, count the cost. You would, Ralph ; I 
could not blame you. 

Ralph. Not with regret. 



18 

Nel. Forget me, Ralph. There are other women 
in the world more worthy of you, who wo aid make 
you happier than I can ever hope to. Your father 
speaks the truth, Ralph. 

Ralph. Nellie, the name of wife is too sacred 
to be profaned by falsehood. I shall never cross 
my father's threshold again, if you refuse me. 

Nel, (Weeping.) Don't speak like that. 

Ralph. I will not touch a penny of his money. If 
you do not love me well enough to face poverty 
with me, wait for me, Nellie, and I will fight the 
battle alone. 

Nel. Oh, Ralph, you don't understand me. I 
would go down with you to a hovel and a crust. 

Ralph. You will not refuse me, Nellie ? 

Nel. I must refuse you, Ralph. You would grow 
weary, of life like that, and if you should, I could 
not live and know myself the cause of one regret. 

Ralph. Can nothing cjiange your decision, Nel- 
lie? (She weeps. Major enters unseen.) Heaven 
protect you then, until I return to claim you! 
Grood-bye. 

Nel. (Springing forward as he opens door.) 
Ralph ! 

Ralph. (Catching her in his arms.) You will go 
with me, Nellie? 

Nel. Yes, Ralph, I will go with you. 
Enter Mrs. H. and Capitola. 
• Major. Go, then, and fight poverty, you unreas- 
oning, ungrateful scoundrel. It has become fash- 
ionable to repay the anxious care and solicitude of 
a parent in this manner. It's the proper thing. 
Keep up with the times, but don't think you can 
marry this woman and then wheedle and cajole me 
into reconciliation and forgiveness. Take her ; 
but never dare to cross my threshold in whining 
penitence, nor expect assistance. You are no 
longer a son of mine. 

Nel. Oh, sir, hear me! 

Major. Hear you? No! Do you think you can 
move me with your hysterical sobs? I know your 
ilk. I came here hoping to reach him through you; 



' 19 

hoping to find in you some remnants of womanly 
instinct; some ideas of justice, duty and propriety. 
Instead, I find you in his arms, practicing your arts 
to secure an alliance with a fool, whom you profess 
love, to secure the key to my money ; but you will 
fail utterly. You may deceive him, but you can't 
hide your identity from me. I know you. You are 
an adventuress, if not worse. 

Nel. No! no! It's false. 

Major. It's trae. 

Nel. Oh, my God ! Ralph, I can't endure this. It's 
false-, its false. Leave me, leave me, Ralph. (Faints, 
Ralph catches her.) 

Enter Evans. 

Ralph. Nellie ! Nellie ! Speak to me ! Speak to 
me, my darling ! (To Major.) You have killed 
her with your cruel insults, and you shall answer 
for it. I can be as unnatural and as inhuman as 
you. (To Nellie.) Nellie! Nellie! Speak to me! 
(To Major.) Heaven help you for this! 
(Curtain. End Act I.) 

ACT II. 

Time. One year later. 
Scene I. — Depot waiting room. — Bell rings outside. — 

Peters asleep on bench. — Evans reading time table 

on wall. — Passengers and others disclosed. — (Enter 

conductor.) 

Conductor. All aboard for the south ! {To 
Peters) Are you going south, young man? 

Peters. Glenermen, this is a most strornary 
case! Most strornary case! (Falls asleep again. 
Passengers hurry off, leaving Peters and Evans. 
Later paces floor nervously and comes down.) 

Evans. My uncle has failed to meet me here in 
time to get the train for home. I have observed 
him carfully of late, and half believe he repents 
having driven Ralph away from him a year ago. He 
has grown old rapidly since then. He used to speak 
of him often, with anger and resentment, but for 
some time he has remained silent when Ralph's 



20 ♦ 

name is mentioned. I wonder where they are hid- 
den, and if their path is strewn knee deep with the 
sweet roses of undying affection. {Laughs) Its 
about time for the stomach to assert itself, and for 
the heart to take a needed rest. {Laughs) I 
shouldn't be surprised if the music of her voice is 
marred, occasionally, by the growl of the wolf of 
poverty. It's strange to me that none know where 
they are. I can't discover the business that brings 
uncle to the city, but I believe, if Ralph were to re- 
turn, he'd welcome him, and relegate me to that 
obscurity, from which Ralph's obstinacy rescued me. 
Curse me if this thought doesn't haunt me sleep- 
ing and waking ! 

Enter Teddy. 

Teddy. {To Evans) Shine, sir? 

Evans. {Taking cigar from pocket) No. 

Teddy. Shine 'em up. Latest stile. Five cents. 

Evans. No. 

Teddy. Only five cents. 

Evans. {Angrily) Did you hear me say no? 

{Teddy, to Peters) 

Teddy. Shine, sir? 

Petees. The sun will never shine again — shine 
again ! {Falls asleep) {Teddy operates) 

{Evans paces floor and comes down front) 

Evans. His business here may be to institute 
search for Ralph. It may be to change his will. 
I'll sit and watch him closely when he comes, and 
if my suspicions are founded in fact, there'll fall 
a blighting frost on the house of Gurley. My greed 
and hate will prove quite as active as an old man's 
love, and, if his hand should take the pen to dis- 
inherit me, I'll find a way to strip it of the power. 
{Peters' hat falls ojf, bootblack picks it up and puts 

it back on his head) 

Peters. Look-a-here, you unwashed specimen of 
poverty stricken infancy, what you doing? 

Teddy. Shining your boots according to orders. 

Peters. According to orders? According to 
what orders? 

Teddy. Now see here, you can't do me. No you 



21 

can't. I knows what I'm about, I does. You can't 
come any stuff over me. I axed you if you wanted 
a shine an' you said "shine again" — yes jou did, an' 
I wants my ten cents. 

Peters. Ten cents! 

Teddy. Y"es, ten cents. 

Peters. Ten cents? 

Teddy. Lost your hearin', Redney? Jes' fork 
over them ten cents and don't make me tired. I've 
got business engagments, I have, that needs my 
attention. Come now, whack up, business is biz, 
Bedney. 

Peters. When did you effect a consolidation of 
all competing lines in your lucrative and honorable 
profession? When was the consolidation affected? 
When was the burdensome tariff on boots, and the 
blacking thereof, advanced to double the former 
price? {Mounts seat.) Oh monopoly! Thou Briarian 
handed god. Monopoly ! When shall humanity be 
freed from thy cursed tyranny? 

Teddy. Oh, let up. 

Peters, The cry of all thy ilk. Let up? Never! 
(Strikes snatch to light cigar.) The voice of Rufus 
Choate Peters shall go thundering down the cor- 
ridors of time — [Feet slips, and he falls on floor — 
enter Porter.) 

Porter. See here, whats all this row about? 

Teddy. He was just thundering down the cor- 
ridors of time — wan't ye Redney? {Strikes pugilistic 
attitude) Come on, Redney, lets thunder again. 
Say, Porter, he's trying to do me out of ten cents. 
Shall I paralyze him? 

Porter. See here now! Yoa just pay that little 
boy what you owe him. 

Peters. {Dignified.) By what authority do you 
address me, sir? One would imagine that you are 
the chief justice of the court of last resort. My 
name, sir, is Rufus Choate Peters; I am conversant 
with all my legal rights, sir, being a lawyer of no 
mean ability, sir. I shall refuse to liquidate the 
indebtedness unlawfully charged; {To Teddy.) And if 
you feel yourself aggrieved, my dear sir, the great 



■ 22 

courts of our country are open to you. I am good 
for a judgment of ten cents, perfectly — perfectly. 
Sue me, sir^ sue me, you will oblige me. 

Teddy. {To Porter.) Say, you going to let that 
chump do me outen my honest chips? I'll jest go 
yer havers to collect the bill. Yes I will. ' 

Porter. Look here, you give that poor little fel- 
ler his money, or you'll have a doctor's bill to pay. 

Peters. I must insist, sir, on your being properly 
introduced, before holding any further conversation 
with you, I have no assurance that you are a man 
of good moral character, sir. {Walks away) 

Porter. {Siezes and pulls him hack?) Are you 
going to settle^ 

Peters. Ha! Ha! Do you seek to intimidate 
me? Ton do not know me. I -will make your 
acquaintance. I will greet you cordially. {Pulls 
off his coat.) You will find me a man of striking 
ability, on the word of a lawyer you will. {Business.) 

Porter. I'll fix you. {Backing off.) 

Peters. Spoken like a man. That's right, fix 
me. I desire above all things to be fixed. 

Porter. {Going.) I'll see you later. 

Peters. Oh, see me now. "Procrastination is the 
thief of time." Come and see me just now. Ah! ha! 
He has fled from me! I have vanquished him with- 
out a blow! {To bootblack.) Call in the rabble; I 
will meet them individually, and collectively. 

Teddy. I can't afford to be done up like that. 
What is my mother and all my little brothers going 
to do fer bread, when chumps like you does me up 
for shines? {Snivels.) They'll starve and you'll have 
their blood on your hands, thats whats the matter. 

Peters. See here my repentent and regenerated 
little sinner. {Feeling- in his pocket.) You have 
smote upon a responsive chord in' my anatomy. The 
chord of sympathy vibrates in my bosom at the 
sight of grief. When you resorted to coercion, I 
was like flint, but when you weep, I am like wax in 
the fervent glow of pity's furnace. Repent, take a 
bath, and be saved. Never forget that Rufus Choate 
Peters cannot be driven. 



23 

Teddy. {Taking money.) If I had collared 
the length of your ears, when I fust seed ye, I'd let 
up on licken' ye inter paying, {Rims off) 

Peters. {Putting on his coat.) Rufus you have 
been deceived. {Notices only one hoot blacked.) Behold ! 
Further evidences of depravity, and in one so young. 
Oh, man, base man! Your soul is cold and flinty as 
the peaks of the high Alps! I feel the crushing 
truth of the poet's lines, to-wit: "Man's inhuman- 
ity to man, makes countless thousands mourn." I 
am enraged. Oh, if I had an object on which to 
vent my wrath. 

Enter Capitola. 

Cap. Flowers, sir? Will you buy a button hole 
boquet? 

Peters. How can you — how can you offer me 
the very things that remind me, so vividly, of the 
one —the only green oasis in the dreary desert of 
my life? They awaken tender memories in my 
bosom— memories of the verdant country with its 
breezy woods 

Cap. And its dogs. ' 

Peters. What do you know about dogs? (Looks 
at her and starts.) What! Am I the victim of an 
optical delusion? No! Can it be? It is! {Cajp, 
turns to leave.) Capitola it was of you I was speak- 
ing. Do not leave me, Capitola. 

Cap. I am not in the habit of allowing gentle- 
men to call me names, Mr. Peters. 

Peters. You know me. You have not forgotten 
me. You recall my name. What have I said that 
you are offended, Capitola? 

Cap. You called me an oasis. 

Peters. You have been an oasis to me. What 
is an oasis but something green and beautiful in a 
parched and arid desert? Capitola, do not abandon 
me. Do not scorn me, I am a storm tossed wreck. 
I must have sympathy or I shall pine and die by 
the wayside. 

Cap. I can't talk with you in your present con- 
dition, Mr. Peters. 



24 

Peters. Oh! Capitolia, that you should see me 
thus! I am not an inebriate. I do not look upon 
the wine when it is red, when it giveth its color in 
the cup, but I am a victim of grief and mortifica- 
tion to such a degree that I was led astray. I am 
on the brink of a chasm into which I shall be harled, 
if I do not see Major Gurley. 

Cap. What can you have to do with old Gurley? 

Peters. Why do you speak disparagingly of 
Major Gurley, Capitola? 

Cap. I thought you wanted sympathy. 

Peters. I do; I thirst for it as the dying camel 
thirsteth for drink. Sympathize with me, Capitola! 

Cap. Well how can I sympathize with you when 
you don't tell me what ails you? 

Peters. Capitola, I am a clerk for the law firm 
of Graball & Wantmore. They are Major Gurley's 
solicitors. He called. I alone was in. He asked for 
them. I told him, heaven help me, I told him I 
was the junior member of the firm. He believed 
me; requested me to draw his will; it was wrong, 
I knew it, I felt it, but in a moment of weakness I 
did it. 

Cap. Did what? 

Peters. Drew his will. 

Cap. What was there wrong in that? 

Peters. I charged him two prices for doing it. 

Cap. Of course you did, thats what any lawyer 
would do. 

Peters. But lam the only witness to that will, 
Capitola. Think of it. 

Cap . Think of it ? Think of what ? 

PbTERs The law requires two. How will it 
read in history? What will future generations say 
of me? 

Cap. Then the will isn't good for anything. 

Peters. Invalid ; wholly, absolutely, uncondition- 
ally nulla bona. 

Cap. Peters you go home. Go straight home 
and stay there. 

Peters. Why should T go home, Capitola? 

Cap. Because there's no place like home. See 



here, Mr. Peters, I know old Gurley. I know how 
he drove young Ralph away from home like a dog, 
just because he married the best and sweetest 
woman in the world. 

Peters. Except one on whom my gaze is 
fixed, Capitola. 

Cap, Oh, keep still. I know how the old wretch 
has never cared whether they lived or died. He 
comes to you, to draw a will to keep his spite alive 
after he is dead by giving everything to Joe Evans. 
You made a mistake, did you? Well, don't you cor- 
rect it. Let him die and leave that will just as 
it is. 

Peters. But Joe Evans is retired to the suburbs 
of the ancient Gurley's affections. He is cut off, 
obliterated, disinherited, forgotten, discarded. 
Cap. What! 

Peters, The wormwood of malice has lost its 
bitterness. The fires of resentment have faded into 
the cold, white ashes of remorse. The whirlwinds 
and tornadoes of that old man's wrath have become 
as sobbing breezes of sorrow, moaning through the 
weeping willows of regret, for in his last will and 
testament, drawn by my hand — by the bold free 
hand of Rufus Choate Peters — he devises and be- 
queathes all his property to his dearly beloved son, 
Ralph Grurley, and revokes his former will made in 
Joe Evan's favor. 

Cap. Oh, Rufus, you are an angel! 
Peters. I am not, Capitola. I am not an angel. 
I am only a soaring eagle of jurisprudence. I assure 
you I am not — on the word of a lawyer, I am not — 
an angel. 

Cap, Oh, Mr. Peters, IVe almost a mind to kiss 
you? {Slaps him on the back.) 

Peters. Don't do it, young woman. I cannot 
permit such liberties. 

Cap, Oh! I'm so glad, I want you to help me find 
Major Grurley and take him to Ralph. 

Peters. But I don't know where Ralph is, my 
fair flower of femine loveliness. 

Cap, But I do. Oh, they are so poor and desti- 



26 

tute, and she is so sick. It almost makes me crazy 
with happiness, to think it is all over. 

Peters. You know where he is? I am with 
you. That will avoid any necessity of betraying 
my error in the will. Oh, Capitola, you are the 
an^el ; you are, Capitola, T assure you are. 

Cap. They live in such a poor, mean place. 
Ralph was so proud he would not ask for help. He 
had never been brought up to work and he could 
find nothing to do and they almost starved. At 
last he got a boat, and they have li\^ed on what few 
dimes he could earn, ferrying the workmen across 
the river at Brighton Dock. 

Peters. He lives on Brighton Dock? 

Cap. Yes; in the ferryman's hut, and Nellie is 
so sick. 

Peters. I could find no such name in the 
directory. 

Cap. When his fatherturned him away, he vowed 
never be called by his family name again, and he 
assumed the name of Gordon. He is so changed 
no one would know him. 

Peters. How do j^ou know all this, Capitola? 

Cap. I live there. When Nellie couldn't keep 
up any longer, she wrote to mother and asked if I 
could come to her. Nobody bat mother and I 
know anything about it, and Ralph would never for- 
give us if we told. I did come, and when I found 
how poor and miserable they were, I stayed to nurse 
Nellie, and we have helped them all we could. I 
have sold flowers and done everything almost, but 
I never let them know where the money came 
from. Oh, if you could only see how poor Nel- 
lie has suffered, and how brave and strong she has 
been. (Cries.) 

Peters. (Wipes his eyes.) Don't mention it, 
Capitola. I beg of you, don't. The storm is about 
over anyway. 

Cap. Oh, I think you are just the best man alive, 
Mr. Peters. 

Petsrs. Notwithstanding' you found me slightly 



27 

inebriated, though of course slightly — only slightly 
that way ? 

Cap, I don't care if you were. 

Peters. Bless you for that ! Bless you ! 

Cap. You must find Major Gurley. 

Peters. I am waiting for him to take the train. 

Cap. Why his train went long ago. He did not 
go on it, or I should have seen him. 

Peters. Has the train gone? It must have gone 
while I was oblivious to the anxious cares of life. I 
will go to his hotel and if I do not find him there, 
Capitol a, I will return and remain here until time 
melts into eternity, and the Jbeavens and the earth 
roll together as a scroll, but I will see him. 

Cap. You find him— bring him to the flower 
store on Broker street to-night, and I'll take him to 
see Ralph. Oh ! Mr. Peters, you are perfectly 
splendid ! 

Peters. Capitola, you are more so, more so, I 
assure you. You are, on the word of a member of 
the grandest and greatest profession ! {Puts her 
hand ovet^ his mouth.) 

Cap. Stop that wfll you. {Exit.) 

Evans. (Rising mid coming forward.) Just as I 
thought! My irascible, self-willed, old uncle has 
grown repentant and would restore the prodigal 
son, and kill the fatted calf. I am sorry to say I do 
not share in his contrition for the past. Why 
should I welcome Ralph with open arms? I owe 
him nothing but a world of hate. He wrecked the 
only noble impulse of my life ; invaded the only 
shrine at which I ever worshiped and robbed me of 
its idol. It is only a step from the deserted dock 
to the soothing waters of the river. There is rest 
and freedom from anxiety, and a long, dreamless 
sleep in such a downy couch, all of which the poor 
old man needs sadly. Would I be guilty? No. If 
he were to stumble and fall, I wouldn't be to blame. 
I could have no motive in his being found drowned. 
He must stumble fall and before he sees that crack- 
brained fool who drew his will, or it will be too late ! 
If I could do this thing and fasten the crime on 



28 

Ralph, I'd live to see him swing a parricide, and 
then I'd find a way to win and wear her. 

Garland. I beg your pardon, sir, but you don't 
look like a man who would set the police on a 
fellow just for asking you for enough money to buy 
a square meal. If you can't, don't give me the 
collar for vagrancy. You can't blame a poor devil 
for asking for bread, when he's hungry. 

Evans. (Comes doivn.) The very man I need. 
Satan never forgets his own. Why do you ask 
for money? You're able to work. ^ 

GrARLAND. I Can't find any work to do, sir. 
Evans. Perhaps an officer could help you. 
G-AELAND. No, no, sir! Don't do that! I'm sorry 
I troubled you ! I'll go away ! 

Evans. (Looks at him fixedly-) Come here. 
How much money do you want? 

Garland. Anything, sir. I'm hungry. 
Evans. (Sloivly.) You've got cursed near the 
last ditch when you become a common penny beggar, 
Garland. 

Garland. (Shrinks from him and looks in fear 
about him.) You know me? • Who are you man? 
Don't speak that name again ! 

Evans. Do I know you? Of course I know you. 
I knew you before a price was set on your head; 
before you killed Ned Andras in 'Frisco. 

Garland. (Tearfully and cringingly.) Stop 
man ! You'll betray me! Who are you? What do 
you want? Are you one of the blood-hounds that 
has followed me and hunted me out of every hiding 
place? I've suffered enough already. How much 
better will the world be off, when you've strangled 
the life out of my body? My God ! I never fall asleep 
but the accursed choking of the hangman's rope 
drives me out into the night in a mad search for 
air. If you've got a single touch of pity, let me 
skulk away and die a natural death. I can't — ugh ! 
I can't die of strangulation! My God, it's horrible ! 
(Porter enters to light gas.) 
Evans. Stop ! You'll betray yourself. I'm no 
blood-hound, though I owe you nothing. 



29 

Gaeland. What have I done to you? Who are 
you? 

Evans. An old associate of yours in the gambling 
hells of 'Frisco, Dick. Take a look at me. 

Gaeland. (Stares at him.) Joe Evans? 

Evans. Yes. 

Gaeland. You scared me, man, until I'm weaker 
than a child. 

Evans. You're insane. 

Gaeland. No, I'm not, Joe. I've been hunted 
like a wild beast. No matter what disguises I've 
assumed, I've always found myself an object for 
keen and stealthy eyes, until I've come to look on 
every strange face I meet with dread, amounting 
almost to abject terror. I've crawled away and 
hidden at times in the deserted habitations of men 
until hunger has driven me, skulking with terror 
into the light, in search of food, as it has done to- 
night. Joe, I have become insane almost with the 
dread of the retribution of the law. 

Evans. You have become a morbid fool. You 
make yourself a target for every curious eye by 
your cringing cowardice. See here, Garland, there 
is no need of this. If you will help me do an un- 
pleasant piece of work, I'll make you rich and free 
from every chance of detection. 

Gaeland. How, man? How? But if there's 
any blood-letting in the job, I can't do it, Joe. I've 
got so much of that already on my hands that I 
can't sleep without dreams, man — dreams so fright- 
ful that the bright sunshine and blue sky of heaven 
cannot dispel them. I can't do any more of that. 
Evans. There is no blood-letting about it. No- 
body but a fool resorts to that. Death by drowning 
is more humane and not so shocking to the eyes of 
mourning friends; besides, it's safer. 

Gaeland. I can't do it, Joe. Don't ask me to do 
it. I can't. I won't, man. 

(Enter Policeman.) 

Evans. I need your help. I say you will. Do 
you see that man? 



30 

Garland. (Fearfully.) Yes, yes ; let me go! I 
must go, Joe ! 

Evans. One word from me and you 11 feel the 
grip and strangle of the hangman's noose in earnest 

Garland. Have mercy, Joe! My God, don't do 
it, Joe! 

Evans. Will you help me? 

Garland. No, no! I can't! I can't do it! 

Evans. (To officer.) I say, ojEficer. 

Garland. {Clutches at his throat) Have mercy 
on me, Joe! Don't let him take me! {Officer 
crosses) I'll do it, Joe. I will, Joe, if you'll save 
me from him. 

Evans. You will? 

Garland. Yes ! yes ! 

Officer. What can I do for you, sir? 

Evans. Can you tell me at what hour the 
steamer Bristol leaves her dock. 

Officer. Ten o'clock, sir. 

Evans. That's all, thank you. 

Officer. Who is this skulking specimen you 
have here? 

EvANsi. Oh, never mind him. He's not such a 
bad sort of a fellow, if he'd let drink alone. 

Officer. He seems to be in good hands, or I'd 
have to run him in on general principles. Good 
night, sir. 

Evans. Good night, officer. {Clutches Garland 
fie7xely by the arm) 

Garland. {Cringing with pain) You hurt me, 
Joe! Let go your hold ! Let go, I say ! 

Evans. Do I hurt you? Does my hand tremble? 
Is my grip firm and healthy? T want to infuse 
a little life into your body. See here. Garland, 
I've an uncle, who bears a striking resemblance to 
you as you looked before you lost your nerve and 
money. If he goes to sleep to-night and fails to 
waken to-morrow, I'm worth a straight half million. 
If his slumbers should be less profound, I'll be a 
pauper. Do you understand me fully? 

Garland. Do the job yourself. I'd bungle at it, 
Joe. 



31 



Evans. Don't attempt to trifle with me, Dick. 
Garland. I won't, Joe. 

Evans. Do you know the Brighton dock and 
the ferryman's hot? 

Garland. Yes; I've crept into the boat-house 
many a night to hide till morning. 

Evans. And do you know the keeper of the 
ferry? 

Garland. Yes, Gordon. He's a poor devil that's 
sometime seen better days. 

Evans. Does he run the boat at night? 

Garland. Not often. There's little call for that 
after the working men go home. 

Evans. I'll meet you there to-night at nine o'clock. 
I want you to act as ferryman across the river for 
the man I bring with me. Across the river ! Do 
you understand that? The river that runs between 
Brighton dock and eternity. Make an even ex- 
change of clothing with your passenger and land 
him safely at his destination. From that time on, 
Dick Garland will no longer need the attention of 
the law, but an uncle of mine and I, will go abroad 
to spend his money, and, at the proper time, my 
uncle can be reported as having died in foreign 
parts. Do you fully comprehend me? 

Garland. Yes. 

Evans. If anything happens before the meta- 
morphosis in complete, the crime must be fastened 
on Gordon. 

Garland. But, Joe, 1 couldn't face a court! 
They'd know me there ! 

Evans. Nonsense. With half a million at com- 
mand, I could protect you ; but it won't come to 
that, if you keep a cool head. 

Garland. Perhaps you might fail to get him to 
the dock. 

Evans. Curse your excuses! Do you intend to 
keep your word with me? I won't be triffled with ! 
I'll find some plausible excuse to get him there, 
and if you're not there to meet me, I'll see you 
hung if I spend the balance of my days in doing it. 



32 

Don^t tiy my patience any further with your "ifs" 
and "buts." 

Garland. I'll meet you, Joe ! 

(Enter Major Gurley.) 

Evans. Here comes my uncle. Go. 

Major Gurley. I've kept you waiting, Joe. Is it 
too late to go to-night ? 

Evans. Yes, the train left half an hour ago. 

Maj. I am very sorry, but I was detained in set- 
tling up some business matters that have been left 
to run at loose ends so long I was afraid we would 
never get them straighteded out. Was there any- 
thing to call us home to-night? 

Evans. No, 1 think not. By the way, uncle, I 
met an old friend of yours to-day. 

Maj. So? Who was it? 

Evans Whitmore, of the lime-kiln firm of Stein 
& Whitmore. Have a cigar, uncle? 

Maj. Yes, thanks. Did you see Whitmore? 

Evans. Yes, and he expressed a great desire to 
see you. Told me to tell you if you staid all night, 
to be sure and call on him. He looks as young and 
sprightly as ever. 

Maj. I dare say. He was a lively boy in his 
time, Joe. I would like to see him. We were 
boys and beaux together. Wonder where we can 
find him. 

Evans He said he would be at his office to-night 
at nine o'clock. 

Maj. Where's his office now ; at the old place? 

Evans. Yes ; across the river from Brighton 
dock. 

Maj. An out of the way place for a man like 
me to go alone at night. Could I get you to go with 
me as a sort of body guard? 

Evans. Certainly ; why, of course, with pleasure. 
Let's see ! [Looks at watch.) It's palf-past seven 
now. 

Maj. Have you had supper? 

Evans I haven't. Have you? 

Maj. No. 

Evans. We'd better not go back to the hotel. 



33 

We can drop into a restaurant somewhere. We 
shall be pushed for time, 

Maj. That's so, Joe. We won't have any too 
much time. Let's go. 

(Exit Evans and Major Gurley. Enter passengers, 
among them an elderly lady tvith numerous packages 
and two or three children hanging to her skirts. Enter 
Peters from opposite direction and catches sight of 
Major Gurley as he exits.) 

Peters. Hello ! Mr. Gurley ! {Rushes after Gur- 
ley. Trips and falls. Runs into tvoman and scatters 
parcels. Knocks one of the children over. Child 
wails. Business. Jumps up and starts after Gurley 
without waiting to see the result of collision. Elderly 
lady seizes him by back of coat.) 

Peters. Excuse me 1 Excuse me, my dear 
madam ! I haven't time to apologize ! Release me, 
or I will make you answer for it before the bar of 
justice. 

{Porter enters. See Peters. Strikes pugilistic atti- 
tude.) 

Porter. Ha ! ha ! 

{Peters slips away. Trips porter. Stands over 
him in attitude of triumph.) 

Peters. {Sarcastically.) Ha ! ha ! 

{End of scene.) 

Scene II. — Street at evening. Enter Capitola and 

Teddie. 

Teddie. Where yougoin' anyway, Capitola? 

Cap. I'm going to the flower store on Becker 
street. It's too bad to make you go all the way 
there, just to keep me company, Teddie. 

Ted. Oh, that's all right. I ain't got no partic- 
ular business jest now, an' it wouldn't do for no 
young lady that's as pretty as you be, to be round this 
town nights without a escort. 

Cap. What do I need an escort for, Teddie? 

Ted. What for? Why for pertiction! This 
town's jes' chuck full of toughs, an' ef I wan't along 
to pertect you, you wouldn't be safe a minute. 



34 

Cap. (Laughing ^) Could you protect me? Why 
I am a great deal stronger than you are, Teddie. 

Ted. Yes ; but I'm a tough, too. Most every 
tough knows me, an' I knows them. I'd peach, an' 
they're onto it. Say, what you going to the store, 
for? 

Cap. It's a long story, but I'll tell you just a little 
of it so you'll understand. You know where I live, 
an how poor the people are?. 

Ted. Cordon's flat broke, ain't he? 

Cap. His name ain't Cordon ; its Curley. 

Ted. Is that so? I knew there was some mys- 
tery about him. Did he use to be a bank cashier? 

Cap. No ; but he quarreled with his father. The 
old gentleman is awful rich. 

Ted. He didn't have no sense, did he? 

Cap. (Laughing.) His father turned him away 
from home, but he's sorry, and wants to make up. 
I'm going to meet him, and take him to see them. 
Then they'll make up and we'll all go back home 
again. 

Ted. You will? 

Cap. Yes ; won't that be jollj^? 

Ted. No ; that ruins me, sure. 

Cap. Why, Teddie. 

Ted. 'Cause, you are the only folks that's good 
to me, an' when you go away, I'll jest get tough as 
as any of 'em. 

Cap. Wouldn't you like to live in the country? 

Ted. I don't know ; I never tried it. Eeckon I 
could run a farm, though. 

Cap. Well, come on, Teddie. We must hurry ! 
{Going.) 

Ted. Say, Capitola, what kind of a hay-seed would 
I make?- 

Cap. (Laughing.) Oh, splendid. Come, hurry. 
(Takes hand and runs him off. Enter Peters ivith 
hat smashed, somewhat mussed.) 

Peters. I believe, and so allege the fact to be, 
that that porter will henceforth refrain from 
attempting to restrain me of the free and untram- 
meled control of my own actions. I was obliged to 



punish him for contempt, and in stopping to do it, 
I missed Major Gurley. I must go to his hotel. 
Hello ! I wonder if that minion of the law is look- 
ing for me! I will withdraw! I will go hence 
without day ! 

End of scene II. 

Scene III. — Brighton Dock by moonlight. — Dock. — 
Boathouse. — Biver, and city opposite. — Interior of 
ferryman's hut.— Nellie asleep on lounge. — Ralph 
stands looking at her. 

Ralph. {Coming doivn.) She sleeps; thank 
heaven for that! It brings oblivion for a little 
time, at least, to her desolate surroundings. She 
sleeps and dreams, may be, of the bright days 
when the soft breezes, stealing in at the open win- 
dow of the little schoolhouse, came laden with the 
fragance of the lilac and the rosebush, that whis- 
pered and nodded just outside. She dreams, per- 
haps of the low music of the glen-brook, made 
sweeter by the notes of the robins in the swaying 
branches of the old mai3les, whose " leaves clapped 
their little hands " in rapture at the music ; of rich, 
warai sunshine and blue skies without a fleck to 
mar their wondrous beauty, save here and there a 
soft, white, hand -breadth cloud, floating across the 
purple vault of heaven, like incense from an altar. 
For her sake, I could almost wish she might not 
waken ; that her hands might never again clasp my 
own with the tender assurance of her confiding and 
trusting love; that the weary eyelids might never 
open to reveal to me the love that shines undimmed 
through misery and want. 

Nellie. (Wakens.) Ralph ! 

Ralph. What is it, Nellie? 

Nkl. Is that you, Ralph? 

Ralph. Yes. 

Nel. Haveyoucome to stay withme now? Can 
you do so as well as not? 

Ralph. Yes ; the workmen have gone home, 
and everything is deserted along the dock. How 
are you to-night? Better, I hope. 



36 

Nel. I am much better. I feel quite strong. I 
have been asleep a long time, have I not? What 
time is it? 

Ralph. It's nearly half-past eight. You'd better 
try and sleep again. Nellie, I'm glad to hear you 
say you feel stronger. You'll soon be well again. 
Nel. If we were only out in the country again, 
I believe I should get up, and be as strong as ever 
in a short time. Have you had supper, Ralph? 

Ralph. Oh, yes ; Capitola looks after everything. 
She is getting to be a famous cook. {Laughs) 
Only this morning for breakfast she made some 
griddle cakes that would have done credit to a 
caterer, if she hadn't forgotten the salt and ioaking 
IDOwder. {Laughs) She was as proud of them as 
a boy with new skates. 
Nel. You couldn't eat them, Ralph? 
Ralph. Oh, yes, I could. {Laughs) I could 
have eaten them if they had really been lead, in- 
stead of a close imitation, to please her. I did eat 
them, and praised their quality. She was supremely 
happy till she tasted them herself. {Laughing) 
She has eyed me w^ith great suspicion ever since. 

Nel It's too bad, anyway, poor child, to put so 
much on her shoulders. She isn't used to it. 

Ralph. She's having quite an experience now, 
to say the least. 

Nel. Yes, and bears it nobly. Did I show you 
what she has done for me to-day? 
Ralph. No. 

Nel. Bring out the arm chair, Ralph, won't you? 
She bought some creton yesterday, and has made a 
cover for it to-day, that makes it as comfortable and 
pretty as can be. {Ralph brings it from adjoining 
room) Isn't it nice and cosy? Let me sit up a 
little while, it will do me good. 

Ralph. I am afraid you are taxing your strength 
too much. We mustn't get well too fast, you know. 
Nel. Just a little while, Ralph ! Don't be cruel 
to me. It's hard to keep still all the time. When 
I feel tired, I'll tell you. You can command, and 
I will obey then without a murmur. {Ralph helps 



o / 



her to Chair, places foot-rest and adjusts pillows!) 

Ralph. So, so, how's that? Do you rest easily? 
You look like an invalid queen in this new throne 
of Capitola's building, 

Nel. Do 1, indeed? 

Ralph. Yes. you do, and I proffer homage and 
fealty. Command me. 

Nel. My power is absolute, I am afraid you 
find me despotic, 

Ralph. Not a bit of it. A loyal subject never 
feels the yoke. 

Nel, It was once the custom of monarchs to 
reward loyal subjects with gifts. Please go to the 
cupboard, Ralph, and find yours. Capitola as prim'e 
minister and I as queen, haven't forgotten even 
the humble ferryman. 

Ralph, What conspiracy have you been plotting 
now? The proofs are in the cupboard, are they? 
(Goes to cupboard.) So, let me see. 

Nel. In my writing case, Ralph, 

Ralph. (Takes out money.) What, Nellie ! 
Where did this come from? 

Nel. You won't be angry with me? Promise 
me this, and I'll tell you. We are very poor, Ralph. 
I know it all. We are almost destitute, and my 
illness is the cause. You have tried to hide this 
from me. You have been cheerful in my presence, 
when I knew you were in despair. Ralph, I could 
bear this no longer, and — you'll forgive me — but, I 
gave it to Capitola, and she sold it, and that's the 
money, Ralph, 

Ralph. Sold what? 

Nel. (With emotion.) The ring — the ring — 

Ralph. The wedding ring I placed upon your 
finger? 

Nel. No, no ; not that. The ring father gave 
me just before the failure came that swept awayliis 
fortune. I could never quite make up my mind to 
part with it before. It seemed almost like a wrong 
done to his memory, and when I looked at it, the 
bright old days came back to me, when I was a 
foolish girl without a care. 



38 

Ralph. And made you half forget the sorrow and 
poverty to which your wedding ring bears witness! 
It made you half forget the gloomy shadows that 
our marriage cast across your life ! Better have 
parted with the one I gave you! 

Nel. Ralph, don't speak like that. No ; your 
ring is here ; here, where you placed it. It has 
never left my finger since you put it on. It will be 
there, Ralph, when my hands are folded in the 
sleep of death ; for when you placed it there, my 
life was so flooded with happiness that no pain, no 
poverty, no tortue can destroy. I would give up 
home, friends, health, my life, and memory of all 
else, before the memory of the love that's symbol- 
ized in this — my wedding ring, Ralph. (Weeps.) 

Ralph. Forgive me, Nellie ; but I little thought 
what the future held in store for us when I learned 
the truth of what you say for the first time. Do 
you remember where it was? 
Nel. Yes. 

Ralph. Under the maples on the old homestead, 
when the roses and the lilacs were in blossom. Had 
we been able to cast the horoscope, would you have 
answered as you did? 
Nel. Yes. 

Ralph. If we were there to-night, under the 
maples, everything would be unchanged, except 
ourselves and father. I wonder where he is 
to-night, and if he ever thinks of us. Capitola 
says he has aged rapidly in the last year. I wish I 
could forget him and hate him, but I can't. 

Nel. You must not try, Ralph. He loved you, 
and it was that which made him blind. Sometime 
he will see the truth and ask your pardon. 

Ralph. There is no hope from him. He is as 
remorseless and cruel as the coming cold, which 
will rob me, Nellie, when it comes and covers the 
river with ice, of the only work I have been able to 
secure. What will happen to you then, the pitiless 
winds of winter alone can tell. I can almost hate 
him when I think of this and the insults he heaped 
upon you without cause or provocation. 



39 

Nel. Oh, Ralph ! I dragged you down to this! 
I told you, you would sometimes count the cost ! I 
do not blame you, but I suffer, too ! (Weeps.) 

Ralph. It was weak and cowardly in me to 
speak like that. I do not count the cost with one 
regret. I would not exchange the loving pressure 
of your feeble, feverish hand, the trusting glance of 
your tender eyes, the words of "Ralph" and "hus- 
band" coupled on your lips, the music of your voice, 
for all the wealth, the pomp, the luxury and ease of 
all this world. I would not barter one little kiss 
(Kisses her.) for all the power that ever lived in 
kings. Come; you'd best lie down and try to 
sleep again. I have been thoughtless. (Helps her 
to lounge.) Don't you think you can sleep? I'll ait 
beside you. 

Nel. Yes ; I can sleep with you beside me, Ralph. 
Surrounded with a love like yours, I feel secure and 
safe, no matter what befals us. But, Ralph, I am 
selfish in my security. Where is Capitola? It is 
late. 

Ralph. She's been a ministering angel to us, 
Nellie, in our trouble. Next to you, Grod never 
made a braver, truer woman, or more loyal friend. 
Her happy disposition has been like a bright burst 
of sunshine in this dark corner of the world, and 
you have gained strength in its warmth and bright- 
ness. She went away an hour ago, ,as merry as a 
lark, saying she had a surprise in store for us. Poor 
girl, her voice seemed almost out of place, like the 
notes of an imprisoned bird. She would not tell 
me where she was going. I told her we couldn't 
spare our sunshine for even a little while, and then 
she said, the little, hopeful Samaritan, that she 
would flood us with it when she came. 

Nel. I cannot bear to think of her alone on the 
streets at night. 

Ralph. I would not let her go alone, and so she 
secured an escort in Teddy. She's almost as safe 
with him as with a man full grown. 

Nel. Teddy, poor little fellow ! I wish we could 
do something for him, Ralph. 



40 

Ralph. Perhaps we can some day, who knows? 
The clouds will have a silver lining for us some- 
time ; but you must try to sleep. You have 
talked too much. {Turns doivn lamjJ.) You must 
try to sleep. 

I^EL. I will, Ralph. {Ralph sits beside her and 
watches her. Enter Garland on the dock outside. 
Looks hack stealthily.) 

Garland. I have thrown that stealthy shadow 
that has dogged me here, off the trail. I saw it 
creep into the darkness and lie in wait to clutch me 
as I passed, but I had too much at stake to fail. 
What if I'd failed? Heaven help me if I had ! I'm 
here; but why? My Grod ! I'm here to wash the 
red stains from my hands in blood! Can life's red 
waters cleanse the stains that Heaven's pure rain- 
drops, falling from the firmament of God to kiss the 
drooping lillies into life, but serve to make indel- 
lible? I can't do this thing! If I could creep away 
and hide from him! I will — I will ! {Looks ivildly 
about him. The ivind moans.) What's that? Don't 
Joe ; have pity on me, Joe ! I'm here — I'm here, 
Joe. I didn't mean to go. I'll do the the work — I 
will — I will, Joe ! {Looks ivildly about him and sees 
no one. Listens. The wind moans.) It was the wind. 
Oh, heaven ! How guilty is that fearful soul that 
cannot listen to the moaning night wind without a 
creeping horror through every nerve and fibre! 
'Twas only the wind of night, whose solemn music 
through the grieving pines about my boyhood 
home, floats like a sacred hymn of praise up to 
night's holy stars. It ruffles the calm surface of the 
little lake and kisses the flowers above my mother's 
grave. Oh, mother, at whose sacred shrine I dare 
not even pray, the night wind can not cool guilt's 
fever on my brow, but stealing in upon me from the 
creeping shadows, moans for my crimson soul. 
{Listens. Clock in distance strikes nine.) My God ! 
I shall go mad, if time creeps on a half-hour longer! 
{Enter Evans and Major Gurley. 

Evans. Hello, my man ! {Garland staggers, falls 
back on dock and clutches at hi.s throat.) 



41 

Major Gturley. Nephew, what ails the man? 
Are you ili, sir? 

Gar. 111? 111? Yes ; lam ill, sir. (Evans stands 
over him.) 

Mas. Poor fellow! Can't you rise? Help him 
to his feet, nephew. Don't you see the man is siek? 
(Evans helps him to his feet.) 

Evans. (Aside.) Another move like that and 
I'll kill you where you stand. Quick ; get him into 
the boat-house. (Aloud.) What's the matter? 
Are you too drunk to take us across the river? 
What ails you? 

Gar. It's nothing. I have been broken of my 
rest until I'm nervous and excitable at times. (To 
Gurley.) Do you wish to cross the river, sir? 

Maj. No ; not if you're sick. You're in no con- 
dition to take us over. 

Gar. It's nothing. A man in my condition can- 
not choose his course. (Hurriedly.) Come this 
way, sir. 

Maj. a strange man, Joe, 

Evans. Yes. This way, uncle ; take care you 
don't stumble and fall. (Major Gurley and Garland 
enter the boat-house. Evans stops and moves back 
quickly. Listening; a moaning cry of help within.) 

Evans. He's blundered, curse him! If anyone 
has heard that cry! 

Ralph. (Within; starts and listens.) What's 
that ; a cry for help! (Comes out on the the dock and 
listens. The wind moans.) It was the moaning of 
the wind. How calm and still it is here in the 
moonlight. A few hours since and all the river's 
front rumbled and roared with the fierce energy of 
this human hive, swarming in search of gold ; but 
everything is now as quiet as the old home used to 
be on nights like this. If I could only stand 
on the old porch to-night, and look in at the win- 
dow, I fancy I should see him at his ledgers. If he 
had only known her as she is. I was too rash and 
headstrong. I should have waited till he learned 
to love her too. All that is passed. He would not 
speak to me if we stood face to face. His will is 



42 

made of iron, and his resentment runs on as sullen 
and remorseless as the dark river at my feet. 
{Wind moans.) How dismally the wind moans, as 
if conscious of the crimes committed all about us, 
and we unmindful of them. {Enters house. Gar- 
land rushes from boat-house, dressed in Major Gurley's 
clothing. Looks wildly back.) 

Gar. No — no — go back — go back, I say ! Don't 
look at me like that ! 

Evans. Stop! stop, man ! Are you mad? What 
do you mean ? Hide yourself ; hide quickly. 

Gar. It struggled up into the light and clutched 
at me. Look there ! My God, look there ! Look 
at that ghastly face ! 

Evans. He's gone stark mad ! There's nothing 
there. Come, hide yourself. 

Gar. You lie, you lie. You drove me on. See 
— there — there — there. {Drags Evans to edge of 
dock. Evans struggles to free himself is dragged to 
his knees. Draivs pistol and fires. Ralph rushes out 
of hut. Garland reels and falls into river. Ralph 
seizes Evans. Nellie calls Ralph. 

Ralph. My God! What's this? {Wrenches 
revolver from Evans^ hand and stands over him.) 
What have you done ? 

{Enter Peters, Capitola and officers.) 

Evans. Don't shoot me — don't shoot me, Ralph ! 
{Staggers tmvards door. Officers seize Ralph.) 

Nbl. {Within.) Ralph! 

Officer. What does this mean? 

Evans. It means murder. It means — Heaven 
help him — he has killed his father. {Cap shrieks.) 

Ralph. What's this? What villainy is this. It's 
false ! It's false ! Release me ! Let me go, I say ! 

Nel. {At door.) Ralph! Ralph! {Tableau.) 

{Curtain.) 

ACT m. 

Time. — Six years later. — Spring of year. — Garden 
of Mrs. Hunfs home. 



43 



Set. — A country door yard. — Apple trees, flower beds^ 
etc. — House at right with wide side porch, honey 
suckle, maderia and other vines climbing over it. — 
Veg I tables, etc., on porch. — Rustic seats under trees. 
— Swing hanging from limb of large apple tree in 
yard. — Rag mat on porch. — Bench on porch with 
milk tins drying on it. [Enter Mrs. Hunt from the 
house. Goes to the pump for a pail of water. — Enter 
Peters from street. 

Petees. Now my dear mother! Excuse me, Mrs. 
Hunt, but if you only knew how my hungry soul 
yearns to call you by the endearing name of 
mother in-law, you would pardon the familiar- 
ity — excuse me, but I must so far anticipate that 
blissful relationship as to perform the duties of a 
son in the matter of pumping. 

Mrs. H. Oh, go way, Peters! You bother me 
'nuff sight more'n you help. (Goes to pump.) 

Peters. My dear Mrs. Hunt, your indifference 
hurts me, it wounds me deeply. Whenever my 
fancy paints the future as a summer sea with islands 
of bliss and coral reefs of matrimonial felicity, you 
are sure to float across my delighted vision like an 
iceberg from the Arctic ocean, freezing and killing 
everything green and beautiful about you. 1 repeat 
it, you hurt me! You pain me, Mrs. Hunt! 

Mrs. M. 'Pears to me you are mighty anxious to 
freeze up and stay froze? 

Peters. I do not fully grasp the import of your 
classical diction. 

Mrs. H. (PumpiuQ.) If I freeze you, why are 
you so particular about my getting to be your 
mother-in-law ? 

Peters. Because, when jon are my mother-in- 
law, your daughter will be my wife-in-law, and if 
your wintry aspect freezes me, I am satisfied that 
the sunshine of her smiles will thaw me out. 
Mrs. H. Oh? 

Peters. Oh, yes! I don't know whether I shall 
be able to withstand a constant freezing and thaw- 
ing out process, but I shall always live in hopes that 
you will eventually melt. You are a little frosty 



44 

now, but I have no doubt you will sometime reach 
the Indian summer of your existence and become a 
comfort. 

Mrs. H. Peters, if I get to be your mother-in- 
law you will live in one everlasting snow squall. 
{Pours water from jpail into 'pan of vegetables) Here! 
If you are so anxious about doing something, take 
this water in the house. 

Peters. You are beginning to melt already. I 
was about to say that I should not be surprised at 
an occasional squall in family. 

Mrs. H. {Sits on bench and prepares vegetables.) 
Arn't you ashamed to talk like that to a woman of 
my years? 

Peters. [Going to siving.) Excuse me for disre- 
garding your youth and experience, Mrs. Hunt. 

Mrs. H. Oh, stop your noise I Peters, They'll 
be back from church pretty soon, and you'll have to 
help eat the wedding dinner. {Prepares Vegetables) 

Peters. I hunger and thirst for a wedding din- 
ner, at which I shall do the honors, Mrs. Hunt. 
When shall I eat that dinner? Echo answers: 
"When." 

Mrs. H. When you stop acting like an idiot. 

Peters. {Despondently) Then I shall die a single 
man. 

Mrs. H. No, you wont. You know 'nuff sight 
more now than you used to. When do you want to 
get married? 

Peters. Now ! I yearn for a consumation of my 
dreams just now. 

Mrs. H. How does Capitola feel about it? 

Peters. She yearns also. We both of us yearn. 

Mrs. H. I suppose both of you will keep right at 
it and not give me a minute's peace, 'till you get 
her. 

Peters. We — that is — I shall haunt you like a 
specter until that supreme moment, mother. 

Mrs. H. And what about me after that? 

Peters. I will plant the kiss of fillial affection on 
your brow, and welcome you cordially about once 
in two years. 



Mrs. H. With a shot gun? 

Peters. Shouldn't be surprised if I did. 

Mrs. H {Laughs.) I rather like you, young 
man. 

Peters. I know it, I feel it. Of course you do, 
and as for me I am in love with the entire family, 

Mrs. H. You can have her on one condition. 

Peters. {Tragically.) Name it! Name it! For 
heavens sake name it! 

Mrs. H. That you don't make such a funeral of 
it, as this wedding is to-day between Nellie and Mr. 
Evans, Nellie, poor girl, wouldn't have it any 
other wajT^, Capitola is her only attendant to the 
church. She wanted to be married as quietly -as 
possible. She don't love Evans, though I reckon 
she does try to respect him. The fact is her heart's 
buried in the grave with poor, young Ralph. She 
loved him with all her soul, and that terrible crime 
never made a bit of difference, poor thing. 

Peters. Love him! Well I should think she did! 
And as for him — Why after he was convicted and 
sentenced to be hung, he never seemed to think or 
care anything about himself, but worried and 
mourned all the time for her. When I took him 
the notice published in the paper that his wife 
was dead,T never saw anything like it. The next 
thing in the papers was the coroner's inquest and 
certificate of his death by suicide. It was absolutely 
and unconditionally awful. ! 

Mrs. H. I never could understand how a report 
of her death got into the newspapers. 

Peters. You are a young and unsophisticated 
denizen of the rural districts, Mrs. Hunt, or you 
would understand that it is possible for anything to 
get into the papers. 

Mrs. H. Of course she was terrible sick, and just 
after little Ralph was born we thought she was 
dying. 

Peters. That's the secret of it- She was the wife 
of a noted character. Some enterprising reporter 
heard she wasn't expected to live, and anticipated 
the event for a scoop. 



46 

Mrs. H. For a what? 

Peters. A scoop. To make my remark intelli- 
gible to your rustic intellect — for a triumph of 
reportorial enterprise. 

Mrs. H. Oh! 

Peters. Certainly, certainly. You get it exactly. 
That piece of enterprise doubtless drove him to 
suicide. 

Mrs. H. And satisfied her, when she came to 
think it over, that he was crazy, and actually killed 
his father in a fit of insanity. 

Peters. That's the defense, Graball and Want- 
more wanted to make, but he wouldn't let them. 
He said the man killed wasn't his father, and that 
Evans did it. Nobody could save him on that plea. 
There was the quarrel between Ralph and his 
father, and there were Ralph's threats ; there 
was the body found, badly disfigured, but with 
all of Major Gurley's papers and jewelry on it. 
There was Evans down and Ralph standing over 
him with a pistol ; Evans' positive testimony and 
no motive for his killing his uncle^ — and I must do 
him the justice to say he was a most unwilling 
witness, and after the body was recovered and 
identified he did everything to shield Ralph. 

Mrs. H. And he has done everything he possibly 
could do for Nellie and everyone she likes ever 
since. You know she was sick and out of her head 
for a long time, and never saw Ralph again after 
that awful night, but for a spell she couldn't believe 
a word against him, and she wouldn't let Evans see 
her either, but she finally got to looking at it as the 
rest of us did and felt sorry for Evans, but do you 
know if it wasn't for the little boy, and Evans being 
able to do so well by him, I don't believe she'd ever 
consented to this wedding to-day? She used to tell 
me if she could only have seen Ralph before he died 
she would feel better. I believe if she'd seen him 
alone, and he'd told her what he told the lawyers, 
she'd believe him yet. 

Peters. I haven't the faintest shadow of a doubt 
on that subject. If a woman can get the man 



47 

she loves alone, and get him to tell her something 
that she wants to believe, she^l do it in the face of 
testimony that would hang innocence. Did it ever 
dawn on your intellect that Evans has worked his 
case for the last six years for all that is in it? 

Mrs. H. Look here, young man, what do you 
mean? 

Peters. Simply this. He has overcome her 
abhorrence of him through her affections. Didn't 
he get solid with little Ralph by buying him every 
plaything known to the trade ? 

Mrs. H. Peters! 

Petees. Didn't he get solid with Capitola by 
telling her what a profoundly wise young man I am ?' 

Mrs. H. Peters!! 

Peters, Didn't he get solid with you by making 
you a present of this place? 

Mrs. H. Peters!!! 

Peters. And didn't he get solid with me by 
employing me to do nothing and paying me six 
prices for it? 

Mrs. H. Oh! 

Peters. Oh, Peters! Mrs. Hunt, do you know if 
Capitola had only told them that night, when she 
first went home, that the old gentleman was repent- 
ant, that crime would never have been committed? 

Mrs. H. Yes, I do. That's just the way with 
her. She wanted to be smart and surprise 'em 
Say, young man, you'd better let her go. If you 
marry her she'll make it very warm for you, I've 
lived with her and I know. 

Peters. I am' willing to take the chances. I 
expect I'll have an awful time, but excuse me, Mrs. 
Hunt, 1 must remonstrate against the use of any 
disparaging remarks, touching the admirability of 
my affianced wife. 

Mrs. H. Peters, that girl is my daughter ! 

Peters. Mrs. Hunt, that girl is to be my wife ! 

Mrs. H. She ain't yours yet, and she won't be if 
I set my foot down! 

Pkters. {Tragically.) Hold it up! In heaven's 
name hold it up then. 



48 

Mrs. H. Hold what up? 

Peters. Your foot. Don't set it down or you 
will crush my heart and desolate my soul with your 
number nineteen gaiters. 

Mrs. H. Young man! [Turns away and laughs.) 

Peters. Say! Don't you think we'd better drop 

this sort of thing until after we're married ? It — it 

ain't regular. This mother-in-law business at this 

time is — is too previous. 

Mrs. H. Oh, Lord! (Laughs and starts toivard 
house.) 

Peters. Hello! Here comes that youngster, 
Ralph. 

Mrs.H. Now don't muss him all up! Nellie 
left him with me and I want him kept clean until 
after dinner, at least. (Exit into house.) 
[Enter little Balph.) 
Peters. Hello, you young rascal. Come here. 
Little Ralph. Hello! What did you come here 
for again? To see Aunt Capitola? 

Petees. You are a very precocious youth. You 
are wise beyond your years. No, sir, I came 
expressly to see you. 
L. R. Well, you musn't touch me. 
Peters. Why not? 

L. R. Cause Grandma Hunt says you'll muss me, 
all up, and she wants to keep me clean. 
Peters. Grandma said so? 

L. R. And aunt Capitola told me not to get near 
you, cause you might set me on fire. 
Peters. What did she say? 
L. R. She said that way off, ever so far, there is 
a big ocean, and that they have great high towers 
with lights in them and they call 'em light houses. 
Peters. [Knoivingly.) Ha! Ha! What else did 
she say? 

L. R. She said they used your head for a light. 
Peters. [Knoivingly.) She did — did she? 
L. R. [Nods his head.) 
Peters. What did you say? 
L. R. I asked her if she wasn't afraid to get too 
close to the fire. 



49 

Peters. Ha! Ha! Ha! Did you — did you? Smart 
boy — smart boy. What did she say, then? 

L. R. She just laughed, that's all she said. 

Petees. Will you just tell her I say that light 
house needs a keeper? That the — the {strokes his 
head) wick is fading out for want of attention ? Will 
you? 

L, R. [Nods his head.) 

Petees. That's right. What you got there? 

L. R. Base ball. {Takes little Ralph ap and 
goes to swing.) 

Petees. Tou can't play ball can you? 

L. R. {Nods his head.) 

Petees, How high can you throw it? 

L. R. Ever so high. Aunt Cap can throw higher 
than I can though. 

Petees. Can she? How high can she throw? 

L. R. Way up to the clouds. 

Petees. I believe you. She has lifted me up to 
the clouds and kept me there for six years. Throw 
it up, Ralphy, Lets try a fly. {Gets down from stving.) 

L. R. I'm a curve pitcher. {Throws and hits 
Peters in stomach.) Ha! ha! ha! You can't catch it. 
I'll tell Aunt Capitola that you ain't any good. 

Petees. Excuse me Ralph, you mustn't. 

L. R. Yes, I will. 

Petees. Think of it, think of it, Ralphy. Oh, 
don't. 

L. R. I won't if you'll sing to me. 

Petees. Sing to you? Of course I will. What 
shall I sing, Ralphy? 

L. R. {Brags out rocking horse and gets on it) You 
must get on behind. You ain't big enough to ride 
ahead. 

Petees. I'm not eh? 

L. R. No, you're not. Now you must sing about 
a black horse. {They rock.) 

Petees. {Sings.) 

Hide a white horse to Banbury Cross, 

To see an old woman ride on a white horse. 

L. R. Yo.u don't sing good. Grandma Hunt says 
you can't sing anyway. 



50 

Peters. Grandma says so? 

L. R. {Nods his head.) 

Peters. Say, Ralphy, 111 sing you a new song, if 
you'll learn it and singit to Grandma Hunt. Will 
you? 

L. R. {Nods his head.) 

Peters. Will you? Now just listen sharp. 
{Sings.) 

HIS MOTHEK-IN-LAW. 

When a man falls in love and gets married, 

And dreams of true bliss without flaw; 
From his dreams he awakens full sudden, 

When he hears from his mamma-in-law. 
His mamma, his dear, darling mamma, 

His mamma, his mamma-in-law. 

If he dreams of a life full of honey, 

Undisturbed by a quarrel or jaw; 
He'll find he must drink of the wormwood, 

When he hears from his mamma-in-law. 
His mamma, his dear darling mamma, 

His mama, his mamma-in-law. 

Though his wife be as loving as Venus, 

As constant as man ever saw, 
She'll become as a fury incarnate. 

When she hears from his mamma-in-law. 
His mama, his dear darling mamma. 

His mamma, his mamma-in-law. 

Mrs. H. {Within) Ralphy! Ralph! 

Peters Do you hear that Ralph ? You'd better 
skip in. Come lets run a race. 

L. R. I can beat you. 

Peters. Excuse me, you little boaster. No you 
cannot. I will try you once. Now! one ! two ! three ! 
go! {Feters7^uns him off clapping his hands, etc.) 
{Enter Balph GtirJey disguised.) 

Ralph. It almost seems to me that I have 
awakened from the slumber of a drowsy summer 
afternoon to find the horror and despair of all these 
weary years since I escaped from prison are but a 
frightful dream. To find myself the same Ralph 
Gurley of old days, and not a felon doomed to 
death for a crime so hideous that the lips of inno- 
cence tremble to speak it. I could almost swear 
the leaves on the old maples are the same that 
hushed their whispering to catch her answer, when 



51 

1 told her of my love, and then nodded and gos- 
sipped at my hardihood so boisterously that they 
waked the nesting robins into song, I almost fancy 
I am waiting for her now to meet me in the garden 
as of old, and that I soon shall hear her voice call- 
ing my name again, so few the changes wrought 
on these surroundings in years that seem to me, 
eternities of time. I could persuade myself I have 
but dreamed, were it not for the dull pain at my 
heart, and the sickening dread I feel at the sight of 
each familiar face. Heaven help me when the 
hands of all the world, who knew me when the 
awful sentence of the law fell on my head are turned 
against mel There's not an honest hand that 
would not shrink from contact with this hand of 
mine were I to speak my name. And why? Because 
the goddess, w^ho holds the scales of justice, is blind 
and sees not. Yes, yes, there was a hand that 
never trembled in my clasp save with the thrill of 
love— but that gentle hand is mute and motionless 
in death, and crumbling into dust. (Invocation.) 
Oh, Grod! Thou great, omnipotent, eternalJudge of 
ail! Thou, whose eyes are never blinded, and whose 
just decrees crush not the innocent, judge me aright. 
I do not fear Thy summons, but when it comes, oh, 
be it Thy decree that calls me hence. Guide and 
protect me from a felon's death. {Passes hand- over 
eyes.) It was to kneel beside her grave— to call her 
name— to pillow my acbing head upon the grass 
and flowers above her dust and tell them I am 
innocent, that brought me back again. 
[Enter Little Balpk) 
Little Ralph. {Looks at him.) Have you seen 

my ball? 

Ralph. {Starting aside.) A little child. He 
cannot know me. {Aloud.) I haven't seen your 
ball my little man. Won't you come bere to me? 

L. R I haven't time. I want to find my ball. 

Ralph. I'll help you find it. Ah! What's this? 
{Hands him hall.) Can you play ball? 

L.R. Yes. 



52 

Ralph. Won't you come and see me? Come, 
won't you? 

L. R. {Crosses over and Ealph takes him in his 
arms. 

Ralph. Do you live here? 

L. R. Yea, I always did live here. {Takes top 
from pocket and winds string. 

Ralph. Whose boy are you? 

L. R. I ain't your little boy, am I? 

Ralph. No! But whose boy are you? 

L. R. Grandma Hunt's boy. 

Ralph. {Aside) She still lives here. 

L. R. I call her grandma, but she aint though. 

Ralph. No? 

L. R. My papa died a long time ago, before I 
was born, mamma says, but she never tells me any- 
thing about him. I'm going to have a new papa 
to-day though. He gives me lots of things, but I 
don't like him very much. {Spins top.) See it spin! 
See it spin ! Say, why don't you marry my mamma, 
then you'd be my papa? Wouldn't that be funny? 
Did you ever have a wife ? 

Ralph. Yes. 

L. R. Where is she? 

Ralph. She is dead. 

L. R. Oh, thats too bad! {Tosses up ball and 
catches it.) They bury dead folks in the ground 
don't they? I wouldn't like to be buried in the 
ground, cause I couldn't breathe then. 

Ralph. Better that than a living death like 

mine. 

L. R. Say, what's your name? 

Ralph. {Aside.) A question 1 dare not answer. 
{Aloud.) When I was a little boy like you, they 
called me Ralph. 

L. R. Why ain't that funny — that's my name. 

Ralph. What! No! No! What is your mamma's 
name. 

L. R. I call her mamma, but grandma Hunt and 
aunt Capitola call her Nellie. 

Ralph. {Starts.) My G-od ! What's this ? Can 
it be! Oh heaven! Can it be that I have been 
deceived! 



53 

L. R. Vm afraid of you wheo you do like that 
Ralph. {Draivs him to him.) No ! No ! Don't 
be afraid of me. Tell me won't you? What is her 
name? What is it besides Nellie? 

L. R. You want to know both her names? 

Ralph. Yes, yes. Tell me both her names. 

L. R. Aunt Capitola says when she is married 
to-day her name will be Evans. It won't be Gur- 
ley any more. 

Ralph. Gurley? My wife! My God can this 
be true? I read the published notice of her death 
with my own eyes — read it in the public prints 
before I escaped from prison. It was not so ! 
She lives and I shall see her. She will go with me 
— and my child! But no! no! His wife! She has 
forgotten me and would turn against me ! My God, 
his wife — his wife ! Divorced from me and married 
to him — to him whose crime and perjury robbed 
me of home, wife, honor, friends — her lips, that I 
have pressed, poisoned with his loathsome kisses ' 
She — my wife — locked in his embrace! Oh! no! 
no ! Oh heaven, this is too much — too hard to 
bear! {Throws himself on seat and buries his face 
in his hands.) 

L. R. I'm sorry, if I made you cry. 

Ralph. Oh, my child, my innocent child! I 
must think! I must have time to think! Come, 
Come ! Walk with me a little way won't you? I'll 
feel better then. {Little Ralph hesitates.) Don't 
be afraid. I wouldn't hurt you for all the world 
my child! Come. Won't you go? 

L. R. I ain't a bit afraid. 

Ralph. {Leading him off.) His wife — his wife. 
{Exit, leading Little Ralph.) 

{Enter Capitola laughing, followed by Peters.) 

Peters. Capitola, you are — you are unkind. You 
will excuse me for the remark. You will — I know 
you will — but you are inhuman. 

Cap. What do you want to bother me all the 
time for? Why don't you let me alone? 

Peters. I can't, and you are inhuman to compel 
me to let you alone. I don't like it, you wound me 



54 

by devoting all your time to a woman that ought 
to be happy. 

Cap. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you're 
jealous of a woman. 

Petbes. 1 am. 

Cap. Ashamed? 

Peters. No, jealous. And why shouldn't I be? 
For one entire week I have been deprived — 
absolutely and unqualifiedly deprived of your 
society. I have pined for it as the drooping violet 
pines for the crystal dew drop. I came here 
expecting to bask in the sunshine of your presence, 
but find it overcast by a cloud in the shape of a 
woman. I don't like it. On the word of a lawyer it 
lacerates my feelings. 

Cap. She ain't happy one bit. 

Peters. Well, she ought to be. If I had just got 
married, I should feel that I had been taken up in a 
cyclone and dropped over the walls of a paradise 
into unalloyed felicity, Capitola. 

Cap. Oh ! You'd feel awful funny, wouldn't you? 
Well she don't. Just stop and think of it Rufus. 
It's the same church where she and poor Ealph 
were married, and she will never love Evans as she 
did him. Oh ! It just broke my heart to see how 
she looked. ( Weeps.) 

Peters. What did she marry him for, if she knew 
it was going to cause a freshet? There was no law 
to compel her to marry him. 

Cap. I know it, but then he's been so consider- 
ate of her friends, and they wanted her to, and 
he's promised to do so much for her child, take it 
all in all, she couldn't help respecting him, and 
she's finally married him. Its all over, but she 
don't look a bit as a bride should. You'll have to 
let me go now. I can't stop any longer. I'll come 
back after a while. 

Peters. Capitola! Cap! I've got something here 
for you that I've carried around and been burdened 
with for a week. Come here, I want to give it 
to you. I've come near losing it on several occasions 
but I kept it for you. 



(Kisses her. 



{They kiss.) 



Cap. (Coming back.) Oh, what is it? 
Petees. One little kiss at parting. (Kisses her. 
They sing.) 

ONE LITTLE KISS AT PARTING. 
One little kiss at parting, 

That thrilled me and filled me with bliss. 
You kissed me before when we parted, 

You kissed me, my darling like this. 

Chorus. 
You kissed me — You kissed me my darling. 

How was it you kissed me I wist; 
Oh, yes! I distinctly remember, 

You kissed me, my darling like this. 

I remember we stood in the gloaming. 

From the river up rose the gray mist; 
Your eyes were as soft as the twilight, 

That fell from the skies when we kissed. 
Cho.— 

Peters. This is delightful, Capitola. 

Cap. Oh! Ton horrid man! (Chases him off .) 

{Enter Nellie.) 
Cap. Oh, dear! 

Nel. Ah! Capitola, are you here? I thought I 
heard voices. Who was with you, Capitola? 

Cap. (Hangs her head.) Rufus. 

Nel. Do you love him, Capitola? 

Cap. Well, T do sort of like him. 

Nel. Your tell-tale blushes speak louder than 
w^ords. my little coquette. (Sits dotvn.) Love 
comes but once to any human heart, and where it 
is. it speaks in the sparkling eye, the crimson 
cheek, the faltering voice. I can read the story, 
Capitola. 

Cap. And, ISTellie, where sorrow is, the face be- 
trays it too. You are not happy in this marriage. 
You do not love him. 

Nel. No! No! I do not love him, Capitola, and 
as for happiness, there's no such thing for me. 
That lies buried forever in the grave, with one 
whose love dethroned his reason, if the world, you, 
everyone, has not deceived me with cruel lies and 
slanders. Love him? No! T have known a love 
so passionate that his vows are mockeries, that 
almost make me loathe him. 



56 

Cap. Nellie, you frighten me ! What have you 
done in consenting to this marriage? 

Nel. Done? I do not know. I have done that 
which — now that it is done, I shrink to think of it. 
Cap. Have you deceived him? 
Nbl. No. I have told him all. Told him I can 
never love him and that my marriage vows are 
meaningless beyond respect and a wife's duty faith- 
fully performed. 

Cap. Have you acted wisely in this matter, 
Nellie? 

Nel. There, there. Don't speak of that. Your 
question comes too late. I have no right to ask 
myself that question. I am his wife, and I will be 
his slave so that he'll let me keep my memory of 
the dead, and do a father's duty to my child. 

Cap. I can't hear you talk like this, Nellie. It 
isn't like you, and its wicked. 

Nel. You ask me questions and I answer them. 
Why did you not doubt and question me yesterday, 
the day before, any time but now, when I am 
chained to him body and soul? 
Cap. (Half sobbing.) Nellie! 
Nel. 1 spoke harshly! Forgive me Capitola, 
for this marriage has made me wretched. 
Cap. We did not know you felt like this. 
Nel. I did not know it either. I thought of 
little Ralph, not of myself; but to-day, when I 
stood in the same church and heard the marriage 
service as I heard it then, and thought of the man 
who stood beside me, the past came back with all 
its suffering and misery, and turned my heart to 
steel. 
Cap. Nellie, you must not feel like this. 
Nel. I shall not refer to it again. I am Evan's 
wife, and will yield a wife's obedience without com- 
plaint. I shall be faithful to myself and him, 
Capitolia, and strive to make him happier, and his 
home more cheerful for my presence in it. 
Little Ralph. (Outside.) Mamma! 
Cap. Here comes little Ralph. He sees you, and 



59 

Nel. Who are you? Who are you, sir? 

Ralph. Who am I? A fugitive from justice; 
an escaped felon ; a parricide condemned to death, 
and hiding from the vengeance of the law ; a fool, 
v^hose only crime is that he loved you so, that when 
he thought you dead, he risked his life to kneel 
beside your grave. Look me in the face and tell 
me that you do not know the father of your child. 

Nel. (Shrieks.) Ralph ! Ralph ! You live ! 

Ralph. Live ! Yes, I live. Your cruelty has 
not killed me. 

Nel. Ralph! Ralph! My husband ! 

Ralph. No, not your husband. You are his 
wife. [She kneels at his feet.) The wife of the man 
who charges me with crime, and you believe me 
guilty. 

Nel. Oh, G-od! What have I done? They told 
me you were mad, and in your frenzy killed him. 
It was not true? It was not true, Ralph? 

Ralph. It was as false as the black soul of my 
accuser. He killed my father, and yet you are his 
wife. 

Nel. No ! No ! {Extends her hands imploringly.) 

Ralph. Do not touch me ! 

Nel. Ralph ! My God, Ralph ! Listen to me ! 

Ralph. We are divorced. You are his wife. 

Nel. No, no! We are not divorced. This mar- 
riage is unholy and illegal. The officers reported 
that you died. The world believes you dead — and 
for the sake of my child, your child, Ralph, I became 
that man's wife. But I am not his wife ; I am your 
wife, Ralph. I have not wronged you. Do not 
spurn me from you, Ralph! I love you and I believe 
you innocent. 

Ralph. {Dazed, extends his arms) Nellie ! {They 
embrace) You love me still, and you believe me 
innocent ? 

Nel. Yes, yes, Ralph. 

Ralph. And you'll go with me? I'm not safe 
here. The world believes me guilty, and if I am 
seen and recognized, I shall lose life, lose you, lose 
everything. 



60 

Nel. I had forgotten that ; but, Ralph, would 
they know you? The officers reported that you 
died in prison — died by your own hand. Everyone 
believes you dead. I cannot understand it. 

Ralph. Nor I ; nor do I care so long as you are 
in my arms and you are safe. 

Nbl. You escaped from prison? 

Ralph. Yes ; and why I was reported dead and 
not pursued, I cannot guess. I read the published 
notice of your death, and on that very night I 
escaped, only to find the whole wide world without 
your presence as dark and dismal as my cell. Not 
knowing or caring whither I went or where death 
overtook me, so I was spared an ignominious end, I 
wandered Westward, and in the mines, below the 
snow-clad peaks of the great Rockies, I toiled for 
gold^ — ^toiled with no purpose save to forget the 
past, 1 became rich, but the wealth I slaved for 
and once desired, was valueless, because I could not 
share it with you. I never heard from home. I 
avoided all means of intelligence. My reported 
death never reached me. I strove to forget every- 
thing save your confiding love, and that alone lured 
me back again. I came to find your grave, but I 
have found you living and your love unchanged. 

Nel. Yes. Ralph, unchanged and loyal always. 
But Evans — J must not see him! He will claim a 
husband's rights, Ralph, under this marriage. 

Ralph. Thank God, I live to make your mar- 
riage with him unlawful and its consummation 
infamous! 

Nel. Yes; but if I told him this, what then? 
You would be hunted down. No ; we must leave 
this place. Leave it once and forever, and never 
let the truth be known. Oh, Ralph, I hear voices ; 
some one is coming! If you should be recognized! 

Ralph. As you have said, no one would know 
me at a glance. 

Nel. But if they should, Heaven help us, Ralph! 
Go. You must go at once. 

Ralph. And you? 



57 

is running as fast as his sturdy legs can carry him, 
the little codger 

(Enter little Ralph,) 

L. R. Oh, mamma! Have you come back? 
(Runs to Nellie, and she embraces hi^n.) 

Nel. Yes — Yes my darling, mamma has come 
back. {Caresses him.) Kiss me, my little one. 

L. R. You love me don't you? 

Nel, Love you — love you? {Embraces him.) Yes 
— yes, mamma loves you. Heaven knows how 
much she loves you, when for your sake she forgets 
the past, and becomes the wife of a man whom she 
once feared, and whom she can never love. {Kisses 
him.) There, there, my darling, go with Capitola 
now. Mamma wants to be alone a little while. 

L. R. Oh! Mamma! I saw such a nice, funny 
man, and I want to tell you about him. 

Nbl. No! N"ot now, my darling. Tou maj^ in a 
little while. 

L. R. May I come back awful soon mamma? 

Nel. Yes, darling. 

{Capitola leads him off.) 

L. R. {At side.) Mamma — oh mamma. {Throws 
a kiss ) Good bye- {Nellie holds out hands, he runs 
back, she kisses him. and weeps. Little Ralph runs 
off^ with Capitola. Nellie sits and holds a photograph 
looking at it, kisses it reverently, bows head on one 
hand and holds photograph in the other. 
{Enter Evans.) 

Evans. {Approaching and looking over her shoulder 
frowns.) {Aside.) Ralph Grurley's picture ! {Aloud) 
Nellie! 

Nel. {Startled) Oh, sir — oh, sir! You frightened 
me. 

Evans. 1 do not doubt it. One would hardly ex- 
pect, however, that the voice of the husband would 
be a cause of terror to the wife whose lips have not 
yet sealed the vows of marriage with a kiss. 

Nel. I beg your pardon, sir; but I wanted to be 
alone for a little while. 

Evans. I will not disturb your revery. I trust it's 
a pleasant one. I will go. 



58 

ISTel. Oh, sir! Do not be angry with me. 
-Evans. I am not angry, and I will trouble your 
patience only long enough to say: That a wife's 
duty requires some small regard for the feelings of 
the living husband, as well as for the memory of the 
dead, 

ISTel. What do you mean? 

Evans. Nothing beyond your comprehension, 
beleive me. When you are not so busy I will call 
again. {Starts to go.) 

Nel. No! No! Do not misjudge me! Do not 
go like that! (Exit Evans. Nellie icatches him in 
surprise and ivith emotion. Enter Ralph unnoticed hy 
Nellie. 

Nel. That's this ! Does he scorn and threaten 
me because 1 hold this picture in my hand? Ralph's 
picture — Oh, can it be that all his kindness and 
sympathy have been assumed? Has he worn them 
as a mask, to cast them by when the marriage vows 
are spoken, and I am helpless? Heaven help me if 
he has ! 
Ralph. Amen to that! 

Nel. (Starts and turns toward him in alarm) 
Who are you, sir? 

Ralph. Who am I? Ha! Ha! That's kind of 
you. Its possible I should be deeply grateful to you 
for refusing to know me, but I'm not. What value 
do you think I set upon my life when you desert me? 
It is a thing to nie as worthless as a woman's vows. 
Call my name with horror on your lips — shriek* 
parricide, and summons aid to drag me to the 
scaffold and strangle me at a ropes end for crime of 
which I am as innocent as your child. Your cruelty 
would be less keen and cutting than it is, when you 
refuse to know me. 
Nel. Man! Are yo a mad? What do you mean? 
Ralph. You counterfeit surprise like a trained 
actress. Summon your husband. Do you think I 
dare not meet him? Bind me hand and foot and 
arm him to the teeth — set us face to face, and let 
the man who, shrinks with fear, hang for that awful 
crime. 



61 

Nel. I'll meet you at the maples at eight o'clock 
to-night. 

Enter Evans. 

Ralph. Till then, good-bye. {Embraces her.) 

Nel. No, not good-bye. Never say good-bye 
again. I'll met you there. Go ; go quickly ! 

Evans. No, stay. {Nellie shrieks.) So, madam ! I 
find you busier than before. The living husband 
and the dead are both forgotten. 

Ralph. Pardon me, sir. You do the lady a great 
vv^rong. I found her almost fainting and alone, and 
offered her my aid. 

Evans. And cured her with a kiss. A great 
physician, truly. Who are you, sir? 

Ralph. I am a stranger. There's no one here 
who knows me. 

Evans. That woman is my wife. 

Ralph. ] do not know your wife. 

Evans. {Derisively) You do not? Your talents 
are of a high order to make so easy a conquest of a 
woman's heart. {To Nellie.) Do you know this 
man? 

Nel. {Hesitating) No. 

Evans. You lie. I'll find a way to wring the 
truth from your paramour. Gro, I say. 

Nel. {Clitigs to Ralph) No— no — I will not go. 

Ralph. Go, in Heaven's name, go, and leave us 
alone together. 

Nel. {Clings to Ralph, turns away slowly, hesi- 
tates, looks at Evans, who stands in a threatening atti- 
tude. — Turns and clings to Ralph) I cannot leave 
jou alone together. 

Evans. {Furiously) Do you cling to him? 
(Calmly) Go, madam. {Furiously) Do you mean 
to disobey me? {Seizes her by the arm) If you 
refuse to go, I'll kill you where you stand- 
{Threatens to strike her. Enter Peters, Capitola, 
Little Ralph, Mi-^s. Hunt) 

Ralph. Hold, you ruffian. Do you think that 
you can strike this weak, defenseless woman, and 
I stand by and let you? 
Evans. Who are you, sir, that threatens me? 



62 

Ralph. I am a man, your equal in brute strength 
and courage. Aim your blows at me. Were I less; 
were I cripple, racked with pain in every joint, you 
should not strike her. 
Evans. She is aiy wife. 

Ralph. It's false. She shall be spared that 
misery if pay the forfeit with my life — and if she 
were, what right has man to kill where he has 
sworn to cherish and protect? 
Evans. She shall obey me? 
Ralph. She shall not obey you. 
Evans. What do you mean? What right have 
you to step between that woman and myself ? 

Ralph. The right acquired through her undying 
love. The right conferred by the solemn sanction 
of the law. She is my wife, not yours. {Little 
Ralph runs to his mother.) 

Evans. And you — you are Ralph Gurley ! {Starts 
back aghast.) 

Ralph. Aye ! Ralph Grurley ! Why do you stand 
aghast and shink with fear? I am Ralph Gurley, 
the victim of your hellish villainy. You dare not 
look me in the face, though I am in your power. 
{Capitola and Mrs. Hunt scream. — Nellie faints.— 
Ralph catches her in his arms) 

Evans. And you shall feel my power unless you 
go forever. Fll give you one more chance. Leave 
her to me and go your way. Refuse and — 

Ralph. Stop ! You infamous villain I Buy 
safety with her honor? No ! Your soul is blacker 
than I thought. You may kill me if you will, but 
you shall never stain her purity with your unholy 
love. 

Little Ralph. Mamma ; Mamma ! 

{Tableau. — Curtain.) 

ACT IV. 

Scene I. — Same as Act II, Scene I. — As curtain rises 
Peters enters through swinging door, stops inside and 
takes from his pocket an immense watch and looks 
at it. — Reaches down to adjust shoe just as mamvith 



63 

gripsack passes oiit.~Man opens door wide and lets 

it swing hack violently.— It strikes Peters and 

knocks him into center of stage. — Knocks off his hat. 

— Peters turns in fright. 

Peters. Excuse me, sir ; I — I — . [Sees no one) 
Was 1 kicked? I would have, staked my profes- 
sional reputation that I was kicked. {Goes to door, 
pushes it, and alloios it to siving back violently.) I 
was not kicked. Strange that I should have mis- 
taken the sensation — but it seemed quite natural- — 
quite so. On the word of a lawyer of large experi- 
ence, I could have sworn that I was kicked. {Picks 
up hat and p ids it on — looks at watch.) I am ahead 
of time. {Puts watch to ear.) It moves — the world 
moves — but its pace needs acceleration. (Takes 
out key and commences to ivind.) Capitola will come 
on this train. It is due in about five minutes. 
Poor girl ! I must blight her budding hopes. I have 
exhausted myself in a vain endeavor to secure a 
commutation of sentence for poor Gurley, [Keeps 
winding) but, as yet, without success. {Keeps 
iviiiding.) This register of Time's eternal flight, this 
triumph of man's inventive genius, appears to be 
suffering from some internal disorder. {Removes 
key and loatch buzzes.) The main spring is evi- 
dently on a strike for more pay. {Bell rings 
tvithout.) The train has arrived. I will treat Capi- 
tola with the dignity that becomes a member of the 
greatest and grandest profession on earth. I will 
be absorbed in profound meditation. I will not 
notice her approach until she accosts me. She shall 
see that my restless and powerful intellect is deeply 
engaged. {Strikes attitude of abstraction. — Passengers 
pass through. — Capitola enters and approaches Peters; 
he does not notice her) 

Capitola. {Gently.) Rufus? 

Peters {Sighs.) 

Cap. Rufus! 

Peters. {^Abstractedly.) Eh! 

Cap. Mr. Peters!! 

Peters. Oh, Capitola ! Is it you? Is it indeed 
you? Excuse me ; you will, I know you will ; but 



64 

I was so deeply engrossed in meditation that I was 
not aware of your approach. Capitola, I am a 
victim of care and sorrow to such a degree that 
even your gentle presence failed to move me. 

Cap. Oh, Hufus! {They embrace.) Oh, Rufus ! 
Isn't this dreadful? 

Peters. Was it? I didn't observe. Let me try 
again. {Embraces and kisses her.) No ; I can't say 
T think so. Really, I rather like it, Capitola. 

Cap. Oh ! of course, 1 didn't mean th— th — this. 

Peters. No ; of course not. Certainly not. 

Cap. I meant, isn't it dreadful about Ralph and 
Nellie? 

Peters. Dreadful ! It's indescribably awful ! 
Why, that unfortunate woman is frantic. 

Cap. Where is she, Rufus? I want so much to 
be with her. 

Peters. She is in my ofl&ce with the little boy, 
waiting for you to come and go with her to the 
prison, to say good-bye to her husband for the last 
time. She does nothing but sob, wring her hands, 
and kiss the little boy. He's asleep on the sofa in 
my sanctum sanctorum. It's very trying to my del- 
icate constitution to get up at five o'clock, on a 
winter's morning, to meet even so charming a 
young woman as you at the depot ; but it's worse 
to see how Grurley's poor wife suffers. What 
between that, and divers and sundry other inflic- 
tions, which I have been called upon to suffer, I'm 
a physical wreck. 

Cap. Oh, Rufus 1 What have you done ? Is there 
any hope? 

Peters. Not the most infinitesmal fraction of 
a hope, Capitola. 

Cap. You. must do something, Rufus, I don't 
believe you have half tried. This terrible execution 
must be stopped. 

Peters. Then why don't you stop it? I am not 
clothed with the pardoning power ; I don't own the 
Governor of this Commonwealth ; I don't carry him 
around in my pants pocket. If I had the authority 
to do it, I'd paralyze him, Capitola, and keep him 



65 

paralyzed, until he signed an unconditional pardon; 
but I'm mortal. Instead of paralyzing the Gov- 
ernor, he has nearly paralyzed me. 
Cap. Ain't you a lawyer? 
Peters. I have that distinguished honor. 
Cap. I thought lawyers could do anything. 
Peters. They can do more than any other class 
of men, Capitola. I speak from experience — from 
sad experience. As a lawyer, I have done things 
that, had I been less, I could never have accom- 
plished. I have lived for weeks on one meal a day; 
I have worn one pair of pantaloons until dogs have 
attacked me, when they've beheld their forms 
reflected in the worn and shining surface of the 
fabric, of which the aforesaid pantaloons were 
made ; I have stood at my office window and 
counted a hundred thousand people pass by, and 
never caught a client ; I have staid in bed all day 
to get my only shirt washed ; I have been lied to 
by clients, and everlastingly damned because I 
failed to win the case ; I have been brow^- 
beaten and bull -dozed by my professional brethren; 
I have been fined for contempt of court ; I have 
done and borne these things with a smiling face, 
and congratulated myself because I was a member 
of the greatest and grandest profession on earth ; 
but there are some things that even a lawyer can- 
not do. 

Cap. Well, I don't believe you're much of a 

lawyer anyway. 

Peters. Capitola, beware! Beware what you 
say ! You are now traveling on dangerous ground. 
Capitola, I adore you. I worship you with the 
strength and fervor of Oriental idolatry. I would 
take poison from your fair hands and believe it 
rock and rye. I would permit you to to pluck out 
ray auburn wringlets, hair by hair. You' might 
bury a poniard in my innocent anatomy and I 
would not resist you. But beware how you trample 
on my professional pride ! I have labored and suf- 
fered too much in this affair to endure slander. 
You refused to marry me until I had done every- 



66 

thing to save him. 1 have worked night and day. 
I have been scorned, reviled, and been kicked, 
because of my untiring efforts. Read that from 
last night's paper. {Produces paper and points to 
article.) Read that, and say 1 haven't tried. Oh ! 
Capitola! this is too much ! 

Cap. (Reads.) "Nearing the end. How the last 
hours of Ralph Grurley, the parricide, are passed. 
To-morrow, between the hours of seven and eight 
o'clock, A. M., w^ill witness the last act in one of 
the strangest and most terrible tragedies in the 
history of crime. Ralph Gurley, the parricide, will 
pay the penalty of his fearful crime on the gallows. 
Retribution, though long deferred, will at last 
arrive, thus vindicating the power and majesty of 
the law. The story of this unfortunate man's life 
reads like a romance and brings forcibly to mind 
the old saying, that 'truth is stranger than fiction.' 
Our readers will doubtless remember that on the 
night of the 16th of September, six years since, he 
murdered his father in cold blood." Oh! this is 
awful ! He didn't do it, Rufus ! It's False ! 

Peters. It will be unnecessary for you to enter 
into any extended discussion to convince me of 
that, Capitola. Go on. 

Cap. (Reads.) ""His trial was speedily had. He 
was convicted and sentenced to death. At this 
time our county was controlled by an unscru- 
pulous ring of politicians, of whom the notorious 
Peets was at the head. Shortly before the fall 
election Gurley escaped, went West, and in the 
mines amassed a fortune. Stahl, the then Sheriff, 
was a candidate for renomination by his party; 
and, fearing the escape of Gurley, if known, would 
destroy his chances, he and Peets, who was then 
Coroner, reported that Grurley had committed sui- 
cide. A mock inquest was held, and they so effect- 
ually succeeded in covering their tracks that no 
one suspected the truth until Grurley returned and 
was discovered. The circumstances of his dis- 
covery and arrest have been fully narrated in these 
columns. Gurley employed the ablest counsel in 



67 

the city, and every effort has been made to secure 
a commutation of his sentence to imprisonment for 
life, but without avail. Our worthy Governor is to 
be complimented on his firmness in refusing to 
interfere with the sentence of the Court, and is 
entitled to the sympathy of all for the ordeal he 
has undergone at the hands of certain of Gurley's 
counsel. These gentlemen, with the exception of 
a certain young fellow of the name of Peters — " 

Petees. ' That's me Capitola. 

Cap. (Reads.) "Appreciate the Governor's course, 
and, having exhausted all honorable means, bow to 
the inevitable. The Governor has been in town for 
some days past, on private business, and this man 
Peters has pursued him day and night without a 
moment's rest. He follows the Governor on the 
street, haunts the corriders of the hotel and forces 
his way into the Governor's private apartments. 
He has begged, pleaded, and threatened, and has 
grown so abnoxious, that he was, this morning, 
ejected from the hotel." 

Peters. "Ejected !" Capitola, I was kicked 
down two flights of stairs. 

Cap. "Gurley's spiritual advisers will remain 
with him to the last. His unfortunate wife and a 
few friends will be permitted to visit him early 
to-morrow morning ; all others will be excluded." 
Oh ! Rufus, I can't read any more. 

Peters. Don't do it then. Capitola, have I 
tried ? 

Cap. Oh ! Rufus, forgive me ; but he didn't do 
it. Is there no hope ? 

Peters. I knovv he's innocent, but I can't prove 
it. Capitola, you knew Major Gurley well? 

Cap. Yes, 

Peters. What made him limp? 

Cap. He had a leg broken in the service, and 
never fully recovered from it. 

Peters. How do you know? 

Cap. I have often heard him say so. Why, 
Rufus? 

Peters. Capitola, I had the body that was sup- 



68 

posed to be Major Grurley's exhumed yesterday, and 
that man never had a broken leg. 

Cap. Oh, Rufus ! Why didn't you go and tell 
the Governor ? 

Petees. Why didn't I ? I did try to. 
Cap. What did he say? What did he say, 
Rufus? 

Petees. Say? Why he ordered me kicked down 
two flights of stairs. That's what he said. He 
regards me as a full-blown crank. 
Cap. Oh ! How you have suffered ! 
Petees. Capitola, there is some of Evans' dev- 
iltry under all this thing. My soaring intellect is 
so imprisoned in this penitentiary of clay, that I 
can't quite get at it, but I believe Ralph is right. 
Joe Evans killed that man, and he wasn't Major 
Gurley. What was done with the Major, God only 
knows, but the man that was killed was not he. I 
know it. That man was only a pal of Joe Evans, 
who resembled Major Gurley somewhat. They dis- 
posed of the Major in some way. They stripped 
his body, and Joe Evans' pal took his clothes, 
money, and jewelry, as his share of the plunder. 
Then there was a quarrel, as Ralph says, and Joe 
Evans shot his accomplice. Shades of Blackstone ! 
Capitola, it's true. I know it's true. 

Cap. Go tell this to the Governor. Go — go, 
Rufus. 

Petees. And get ejected ! 1 must have proof 
that what T say is so. That body was not Major 
Gurley's. Capitola, he was a strange man, and 
Ralph says he always wore a chain and locket 
around his neck that contained the portrait of his 
wife. 

Cap. He did. I have a often heard mother tell 
how queer he was about that. 

Petees. The man whose body was found wore 

no such locket. (Bell rings outside) Another proof 

to me, but valueless to convince anyone else; on 

the word of a lawyer it is valueless. 

Cap. What can we do? 

Petees. Nothing; absolutely nothing. That 



69 

man is innocent. I know it — feel it— bnt he will 
die for want of proof. If I could only discover 
what became of Major Gurley, Capitola. 

{Enter Dr. Burns, attendant, Major Gurley in charge. 
— They seat Gurley and Doctor crosses over.) 

De. Buens. Pardon me, sir; but am I not addres- 
sing Mr. Peters? 

Petees. You. have that honor, but please excuse 
me— Why, Doc, how are you? Most happy to 
see you. 

De. B. And I to see you. 

Petees. This is an unexpected pleasure; on the 
word of a lawyer, it is, Doc. 

De. B. If rumor be true, you add no weight to 
your declaration by reference to your vocation 
Peters. 

Petees. The old prejudice. Doctor. The great- 
est and grandest profession on earth, sir. 

De. B. By the way, I haven't seen you since 
your advent in that capacity. 

Petees. Nor I you, since you became a full- 
fledged peddler of pills. Capitola, permit me. 
Doctor, Miss Hunt, a flower of the verdant country, 
whom I hope soon to wear on the lapel of my coat 
as ray wife. Capitola, Dr. Burns, an old schoolmate 
of mine, at present Assistant Superintendent of the 
State Asylum for the Insane. I know all about 
you, Doc, on the word of a lawyer — Excuse me for 
the expression — IVe kept track of you, and I want 
to know, why have you never permitted your gaze 
to rest upon my shingle, and your heels upon my 
office table? 

De. B. I have often thought I would hunt you 
out, but I very seldom come to your city. It is 
only an accident that brings me here now. One of 
our inmates escaped and I got track of him, and 
came to recover him. 

[Capilolu and Peters look at Major Gurley.) 

Major Gueley, Don't you see the man is ill? 
You can't go to-night, my man. Ha! hal ha! Take 
care you don't fall, uncle. No, no, nephew, the 
man is ill. (Takes locket from his neck and looks at 



TO 

picture.) Yon loved him ; we both loved him ; but 
I drove him away— drove him away — drove him 
away. But I must change my will! {Starts up, 
turns his face full upon Peters, the doctor and Capi- 
tola. — Steps forward and limps slightly. — Capitola 
shrieks.) 

Cap. Look! Look! Ruf us, it's Major Gurley! 

Peters. Doctor, who is this man? 

Dr. B. I don't know, Peters. What's the 
matter? Do you know him? 

Peters. Do 1 know him? See here, doctor, 
don't question me. There's life and death in this 
business. What do you know about that man? 

Dr. B. You're a strange fellow, Peters ; you 
always were ; but I will tell you I all know about 
the man. He's been in our institution six years. 
His lunacy is of a harmless type- What you hear 
is about all he ever says. 

Peters. Yes, yes, yes ; but where did he come 
from ? 

Dr. B. He came from this city. He was found 
wandering in the streets near the dock, with an 
ugly wound on his head, which, doubtless, caused 
his insanity. He was dressed like a vagrant. 

Peters. When was this. Burns? What month? 
What day? Don't stop to ask me why. 

Dr. B. I'll tell you in a minute. (Produces mem- 
orandum hook.) September 16th. 

Peters. My Clod ! It's Gurley ! It's the Major, 
Capitola. 

Dr. B. Who? Gurley? 

Peters. Yes, Grurley ; for whose murder his son 
will hang to-day. If I only had some proof ! 
What's that he holds therein his hands? 

Dr. B. He had it on when we received him, and 
we have let him wear it, as he is inclined to be 
violent, if we take it away. 

Peters. Yes, yes ; but what is it? 

Dr. B. a locket with a woman's picture. 

Peters. (Seizes Capitola and embraces her.) Cap- 
itola, did you ever see the picture in Major Gurley's 
locket? 

Cap. No, no. 



71 

Peters. Who has? Who knew his wife? 

Cap. Mother, mother, Rufus, and Aunt Ruth. 

Peters. Where are they? 

Cap. At Aunt Ruth's house. 

Peters, I must bring them here. Doc, you 
know me. Will j^^ou let me take that locket? 

Dr. B. Yes. 

Peters. We'll save him, Capitola. On the word 
of a member of the greatest and grandest profes- 
sion on earth, we'll save him yet. 

Cap. But it's twenty miles to Aunt Ruth's 
house, and there's no train before nine o'clock. 
You can't ajo. 

Peters. I can't? If 1 had to tunnel through 
mountains, and swim oceans, I'd get there. 

Cap. I'll e[o and tell Nellie to be brave and 
hope. It will kill her to say good-bye to him. 

Peters. Not a word to her, Capitola. We may 
be deceived. This may be only a strange coinci- 
dence in this strange story Don't hold out a false 
hope that may end in deeper agony. If we are 
right, I'll be here before she says good-bye. 

Cap. If you should be too late to stop this exe- 
cution ! 

Peters. Capitola, you are again reflecting upon 
my professional honor. I belong to a profession 
who are always on time in a case of emergency. 
Talk to the pill-pedlar about being late, but, remem- 
ber I am a lawyer. 

Cap. But how can you go so far and get back in 

time? 

Peters. How? Why, I'll build a balloon, ride a 
cyclone, buy a railroad, but I'll do it. I must see 
the superintendent of this road, and get a special 
train. If entreaties won't move him, I'll try 
money, and if money be ineffectual, let him 

beware. 

Cap. Oh, Rufus ! What desperate thing would 

you do? 

Peters. What would I do? What would I do? 
Why in a last last desperate extremity, I would 
try eloquence. 



Cap. Oh, Rufus! You might kill him! 

Petees. {Emhraces her.) Capitola, remain where 
you are until the hand of time has woven five 
minutes of warp into the woof of your existence, 
and I will embrace you again. 

(Exit Peters.) 

De. B. What is this all about, Miss Hunt? 

Cap. Oh, sir! Have you never heard of Ralph 
Gurley? 

Dr.B. Is Mr. Peters his lawyer? Yes, I have 
heard of him. He is to be executed for the murder 
of his father. 

Cap. He is innocent. (Weeps.) That man is 
his father. 

Dr. B. Impossible I 

Cap. He is — I know he is. Oh, sir ! May I speak 
to him? 

Dr. B. He is insane. He knows no one. 

Cap. But he njightknow me. Let me try. Oh, 
if you only knew. 

Dr. B. Certainly you may speak to him if you 
desire; but it is useless. [Capitola crosses over and 
kneels at feet of Gurley, ivho still looks at locket.) 

Cap. Major Gurley, don't you know me? Look 
at me — speak to me. Don't you remember me? 
{Gurley looks at her blankly.) I am Capitola ! You 
knew me. I used to sing to you under the old 
maples, you called me little Cap, and gave me 
XDennies. Yon must know me! Speak to me; its to 
save Ralph's life. Try to remember me ! Try — try 
to think ! 

Maj. No! No! 1 drove him away — drove him 
away — drove him away. There! There! Don't 
you see the man is ill — too ill to cross the river 
to-night? 

Cap. He does not know me. Oh, sir! Can't you 
think? Can't you remember me? Try hard to 
think for poor Ralph's sake. They'll kill him, 
maybe, if you don't. 

Maj. {Siezes her hand atid draws her to him, stares 
at her and pushes her hack slowly.) Then I must 
change my will, for 1 drove him away — drove him 
away. 



Cap. (Sobs.) He does not know me. Oh, if Mr. 
Peters should fail 1 (Enter Peters.) Can he ^et a 
train — do you think he can, doctor? 

Dr. B, I cannot say. 

Peters. But I can say. I am the fee-book of a 
lawyer, there's no such word as fail. Capitola, 
embrace me — embrace me, Capitola. I have got 
that special train. In two minutes she'll be here, 

and then [Gurley is led out hy an officer. 

Doctor goes out and returns?^ 

Cap. And then— out— out, flying oat into the 
night, bracing its iron shoulders to the wind, toss- 
ing its flowing mane in the- air, flinging the white 
foam from its quivering sides, gasping and choking, 
as if for air; on, on, over dashing streams and rat- 
tling bridges; on, on, through fields and woods; on, 
on, across level reaches of green meadow; on, on, 
along the hillside; down, down, into the valleys, 
frightening the sleeping cattle, startling the nest- 
ling birds, panting and rushing onward — ever on- 
ward — with life and de-ath in the keeping of its 
spining wheels; screaming with terror, lest it be 
too late, will speed the special train. Oh, Rufus ! 
{Throws herself into his arms.) 

Peters. Bravo, Bravo, Capitola ! Hark ! What's 
that? {They listen and then sing.) 

It's the train, the special train. 
Hark! It is — it is the train, 
Outward, onward, through the night, 
May it speed with eagles flight. 
Life and death are in its wheels; • 
This the iron monster feels, 
Hear it shriek, at one in pain. 
Hark! It is the special train. 

Chorus. 
Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Hear the bells, 
Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! It's whistle swells 
With the echo from the hills, 
And the night with discord fills, 
With it's Ho! Clang! Ho! Clang! Ho! 
Clang! Clang! Ho! Clang! Clang! Clang! Ho! 

Peters. And it is here 1 Doctor, the locket ! 
{Doctor hands it.) Capitola, good-bye. Rember, not 
a word to her — not a word to her for the world. 
We may be mistaken after all. 



74 

Cap. She will ask for you. What shall I say to 
her? 

Peters. Say anything to her, but don't tell her^ 
what I am doing. Tell her that 1 am detained. Go 
with her, and comfort her, but don't tell her any- 
thing, 'till we are certain. 

Cap. Rufus, you must come in time. 

Peters. I will — I will on the word of a lawyer. 
Doc, won't you see the Governor and tell him what's 
up? Take your man to the hotel and ask the 
Governor to meet me there. He will listen to you. 
If its Gurley, I can establish his identity. Capitola, 
I'll be there. (Exit Peters.) 

Scene U.— (Vestibule of jail. — Enter Evans and 

Sheriff Marsh.) 

Evans. Sheriff, I shall never forget your kind- 
ness in this matter. I am aware that the hour is 
an unseasonable one, and my request somewhat 
extraordinary. 

Sheriff. I appreciate your feelings, and respect 
your motives, Mr. Evans. 

Evans. As absurd and improbable as his story is; 
there are those, whose good opinion is of the 
utmost value to me, who look upon me with dis- 
trust because of his accusations. 

Sheriff. I am sure, Mr. Evans, that you have 
the full sympathy of all honest and law abiding 
citizen's. Your conduct has, in all respects, been 
honorable to him and to the state. 

Evans. I feel, and have felt, that, in justice to 
myself, and in justice to the officers of the law, his 
guilt should be established by his full confession. 
He has striven to fasten odium on me, and 1 alone, 
perhaps, of all men, can secure his confession. 
Standing, as he does, at the very brink of the scaf- 
fold, with every avenue of escape cut off, with no 
hope of life, and the certainty of death and final 
judgment so near at hand, I feel that I can move him 
to confess his guilt, and do me justice, if I can visit 
him alone in his cell. If I presume too far in this 
request, do not hesitate to remind me of the fact. 
I respect the anxieties, and perplexities of your 



75 

position at this time, and would not willingly add 
to them. 

Sheriff. I also appreciate your feelings, Mr. 
Evans, and believe that I am doing my duty in 
granting your request. His spiritual advisers are 
with him, but I will ask them to withdraw for a 
few minutes, and leave you together, undisturbed. 
Please come this way, sir. (Exit.) 

Scene III. — {Slowly run on.—Inierior of prison, 
dimly lighted.— Ralph sits at table ivith his head 
boived on his hands. — Spiritual advisers singing 
hymn, "7)e Profundis." — Sheriff Marsh enters and 
stands waiting until hymn is finished.) 
Sheriff. Gentlemen, I am deeply sorry to 'dis- 
turb you, but there is a visitor outside, who must 
see the prisoner alone. May I ask you to withdraw 
for a few minutes? {Clergymen and Sheriff exit. — 
Ralph starts and looks up.) 

Ralph. A visitor who must see me alone ! It 
must be she ! Oh ! Give me strength to master my 
despair, and calmly say good-bye to her ! It's hard 
to die, else why do all that live shrink back in terror 
from the open grave, when the cold clods fall with 
ominous echoes on the coflB.n lid of some departed 
friend, from whom the air and sunlight of this 
world are shut forever out. It's hard to die, before 
the shadows of our loves and hopes fall to the east- 
ward from the light of life's declining sun, and try 
the passage of a shoreless sea in darkness and alone. 
It's hard to die, although the hand of love makes 
soft the dying pillow, and Grief 's quivering lips 
seal Death's decree with kisses. But such a death 
as this ! To die upon the scaffold, with love 
denied me, and even Pity without a tear to shed 
for the cold clay that Hate and Vengeance have so 
rudely marred — too hard to bear ! But harder, 
still, are those last words, '"good-bye." {Buries his 
face in his hand. — Enter Evans] approaches Ralph 
and lays his hand on his shoulder. — Ralph turns 
sloivly and looks up, sees Evans and rises slowly to his 
feet.)' 

Evans. Well ! Do you feel my power now? 



Ealph. {Sloivhj.) No. {Evans coivers.) But 
you feel mine, and shrink you coward, like a 
baffled cur. 

Evans. You have not three hours more of life. 
What power do you possess to frighten me? 

Ralph. The power of innocence over conscious 
guilt. The human eye has the power to quell the 
savage beast of prey. You are in my power, not I 
in yours. Go ! 

Evans. ( With mock bravado.) Ha ! ha ! ha I Do 
you think you can frighten me? You are unarmed 
and help is within call. Don't be a fool, Ralph. 
Listen to me. I am here to help you. 

Ralph. You are here to help me? You? Why 
am I here? I am here through your hellish machi- 
nations ; here for a crime of which you are guilty. 
Do you know that you are in the presence of death? 
{Speaks wildly, steps to lamp and turns it nearly out-) 
See there ! Look there ! Do you see that ghastly 
phantom with hands that clutch at you to drag you 
to the grave, that yawns a fathomless abyss at your 
very feet? It's Death. And the gray-haired man 
you killed, with a bleeding wound upon his forehead 
is there — there, behind you — to push you in ! {Evans 
turns horrified. — Ralph forces him doivn upon his 
knees.- Evans coicers. — Balph, with hand uplifted, 
speaking slowly.) I am unarmed and help is within 
call! {Evans rises to his feet.) 

Evans. For God's sake, listen to me, Ralph! 

Ralph. Listen to you? No. You could not 
speak. The words would choke you. I know what 
you would say. If 111 confess to her and all the 
world, that I am guilty of your crime, you'll strive 
to save me from a present death, and give me life 
imprisonment instead. Is that your purpose? 
{Evans hesitates.) Speak! 

Evans. Yes. 

Ralph. Then stop, sir, where you are. Another 
word, and I shall have a crime to answer for, of 
which I should be guilty. I'd rather die upon the 
rack than take life from your hands. I tell her — I 
— that you are innocent, that you may poison the 



77 

air she breathes with your avowals? {Crosses over 
to him.) No. I will not kill you. Go ! [Enter the 
Sheriff'. — Ralph to Sheriff'.) I am a prisoner and in 
your keeping, sir; a felon, with but few hours 
more to live ; yet the same law that takes my life, 
affords me some protection at your hands. Remove 
that man. 

Sheriff. Sir? 

Ralph. Remove that man! 

Evans. My efforts have been fruitless, I will go. 

Sheriff. Gurley, I am sorry at the turn affairs 
have taken. It was from a sense of duty that I 
admitted him to see you. 

Ralph. Then you have mistaken the duties of 
your position, sir. 

Sheriff. Gurley, out of consideration for the 
innocent, who suffer because of your crime, and 
not for you, I have shown you more than ordinary 
kindness. It is in my power to refuse admittance 
to any of your friends, and since you presume to 
instruct me as to my duties, I shall feel obliged to 
refuse admittance to your wife and child. 

Ralph. Oh, sir ! You can not mean it — you will 
pardon me for what I said. I spoke in anger, not 
you, but to him. Let me see them, and after that, 
I shall ask nothing more, do nothing more, but make 
your work as easy as I can. Don't refuse me this. 
You have a wife and child, and in their names I 
appeal to you, let me say good-bye to mine! 

Sheriff. I'll do it, Gurley, but let the interview 
be brief. I won't refuse you this, and I am sorry 
for what! said a moment since; but for your own 
sake, Gurley, say good-bye, and let that end it — an 
interview of any length would be sure to unnerve 
you and would do no good, beside you — you haven't 
much more time 

Ralph. What time is it now, then ? 

Sheriff. Its morning. 

Ralph. And they? 

Sheriff. Are waiting outside — Gurley, be calm 
and face this business like a man. 

{Exit Sheriff and Evans.) 



Ralph. Face it like a man — Oh heaven ! I am 
not flint, but for her sake and for my own I must be 
Qalm or this will kill her too! God only knows the 
depth of human misery and despairl {Invocation.) 
Oh, help me then to suffer and be strong. [Enter 
Nellie, Little Ralph, Capitola, Sheriff and attendant.) 

Nel. Ralph ! Ralph ! {Nellie throws herself into 
Ralph'' s arms and sobs convulsively. He embraces her 
in silence and with suppressed emotion. Capitola 
crosses over and little Ralph goes to his mother'' s side.) 

L. R. Oh, mamma, we have found papa! {Nellie 
starts convulsively and clings to Ralph, at the child's 
speech he is unnerved, he staggers, sinks into chair. 
Nellie kneels at his feet and he draws little Ralph to 
him.) 

Ralph. ^ly child ! my child! 

L. R. {Gently.) You'll go with us won't you, 
pa-pa? {Ralph bows head on table.) 

Cap. {At door.) Oh! Why don't he come. 
{Sheriff comes to Ralph and speaks in a low voice with 
emotion.) 

Sheriff. Be careful, Gurley, end this as soon as 
possible. 

Ralph. Yes, yes, a moment more. {Bows head 
cund overcomes emotion.) Nellie, my daring, we must 
part. 

Nel. Oh Ralph! Ralph! 

Ralp^. 1 am innocent of any crime and am sus- 
tained by that, but you — you must live— live for 
little Ralph. And Nellie, in years to come, when 
he can understand the odium and disgrace that my 
death will fasten on him, if the finger of scorn 
be leveled at him by his mates because he 
is my child, if he should ask you anything of me, 
tell him I died innocent and that our name is not 
dishonored in the sight of heaven. Tell him I died 
upon the scaffold because the judgments and 
decrees of man are finite, and because the law 
groped blindly in the dark and exercised the power 
of ending life which rests alone with God. Nellie ! 
Wife! Have you a doubt, a lingering shadow of a 
doubt that 'I am guiltless. 



79 

Nel. [Sobs convulsively and clings to him.) No! 
No! No! Ralph. 

Ralph. Then teach my child to see the truth 
And you— yoQ must not always think of the suf- 
fering and misery only that I brought to your 
young life. Think sometimes also of the tender 
memories which the past holds in its keeping 
because you were my wife. I have but one request 
to make, and that is this: When I am gone, bury 
me under the maples on the old homestead, where 
you first told me that you loved me, and where you 
can often come and stand beside my grave. (Nel- 
lie sobs convulsively.) 

Sheriff. (With emotion.) Gurley! 

Ralph. Yes, yes. Nellie, be strong and say good 
bye, (Rises to his feet; as he speaks lifts her up with 
one arm and with the other he 'presses his child to him.) 

Cap. No — no — no— not now. Wait, wait ; he'll 
come, I know he will. 

Sheriff. She must go. 

Cap. She must not go. He is innocent. His 
father is not dead. I saw him. He is not dead; 
he is insane. 

Ralph. (Starts.) Capitola ! 

Cap. He is alive. You are innocent. Rufushas 
gone to get the proofs, and he will come back in 
time, I know he will. He said he would. 

Ralph. Sheriff, what does this mean? 

Sheriff. Nothing. Bring this to an end. There's 
no hope for you in this. The sight of suffering has 
turned her head. Young woman, you must go. 

Cap. I will not go! He will come in time! You 
shall not separate them. (Sheriff seizes her.) I 
will not go! Let go your hold. He will come! He 
will! He will! (Breaks loose and runs to door, past 
guard. — Looks out and shrieks.) He's here ! He's 
here! 

(Enter Peters, Governor and Mrs. Hunt. — Capitola 
catches Peters around neck and runs him forward.) 

Cap. Oh!Rufus! You have come in time. (Peters 
very much winded.) 

Peters. (Rapidly.) I have; I have, Capitola. 



80 . 

It's all right, Ralph. You're reprieved. On the 
word of a member of the greatest and grandest pro- 
fession on earth, you are all right. May have to 
stay in jail a fev^ days, but you'll be out in time 
to go to mj^ wedding. Capitola, what do you say? 
Am I much of a lawyer? Am I or aint I? 

Cap- Oh, Rufus; come here, and I'll give you a 
souvenir. (Kisses him and takes him aside.) 

Ralph, {To Governo7\) What does this mean? 

Governor, Mr, Gurley, I am the Governor of the 
State, I have reprieved you, I am now satisfied 
that your father lives and that you have been the 
victim of a terrible mistake. 

Ralph, Nellie, my darling, there is life and 
hope! {To Governor.) My father lives? 
(Nellie goes to Mrs. Hunt.) 

Governor, You shall know all in time. I am 
now convinced that you have suffered for Evans' 
crime. 

Ralph. Evans? Where is he? 

Peters. Collared, In durance vile. Did it my- 
self. Charged him with killing his pal on the dock 
and scared him so that he claimed he did it in 
self defense. 

Capitola. You did, Rufus? 

Peters I am a detective as well as a member 
of the greatest and grandest profession on earth, 
I did it myself with the assistance of two seven- 
story policemen. He is now in the clutches of the 
goddess who is painted blind and who has been 
going it blind m this case, but who has now got 
the bandage off from one eye at least. 

Governor. And I, sir, as Governor of a great 
State, representing its people, thank you that 
through your efforts justice has not been mis- 
carried, 

Mrs, Hunt, And I too, Rufus — 

Peters. Excuse me; you will, I know you will, 
but I must say this sort of thing is too much for 
my nerves. Do you all feel the same way? 

All, Yes, 



81 

Peters, And you all want to do something for 
me? 

All. Yes. 

Peters. I know it — I feel it. That being so — 
{To Ralph and Nellie.) Don't mention it. {To Lit- 
tle Ralph.) Learn that song and sing it to Grandma. 
{To Governor) As for you, my dear sir, {with dig- 
nity) I desire you to apologize to me for ordering 
me kicked. 

Governor. I do, sir, most sincerely. 

Peters. {To Governor) Don't mention it. {To 
Capitola.) Give me another souvenir- {Kisses her.) 
And mother-in-law, please name the day. {To 
Audience.) And, by the way, to the general public 
I desire to say that I am about to get married, but 
that I am still a member of the greatest and grand- 
est profession on earth. That T desire clients, and 
if you need anything in my line and will call on 
me I will with characteristic modesty, and as ably 
as I may, present your case to THE BLIND GOD- 
DESS. 

{Curtain.) 



CH AR AOTEES : 



RUFUS CHOAT PETERS— "A Member of the Great- 
est and Grandest Profession on Earth." 

RALPH GURLEY— A Victim of Circumstances. 

MAJOR GURLEY— Ralph's Father. 

JOSEPH EVANS— Ralph's Cousin. 

RICHARD GARLAND— A Prey to Conscience. 

LITTLE RALPH— Ralph's Child. 

TEDDY— An Arab. 

DR. BURNS— Of the Insane Asylum. 

NELLIE IRVINE— ACountry School-mistress, After- 
wards Ralph's Wife. 

MRS. BETSY HUNT— Freespoken and Kindhearted. 

CAPITOLA HUNT— A Frolicsome Samaritan. 
Governor, Sheriff, Officers and Others. 



